Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (18 page)
It’s dishonest.
The words slink into my mind and I sit up, swiping an arm across my mouth.
“What did you say?” I ask the Prince.
“I said I can ensure you and Jake a long life together.”
“No, after that. You said . . .”
His smile is light, concerned even. “I didn’t say a thing after that.”
He’s lying. At least I think he’s lying. Still, I stare at the Prince and wonder: is it dishonest to speak truth even if I don’t feel it?
“You can’t promise me Jake for a lifetime,” I say. “You don’t have the final say.”
He draws his knees up and wraps his arms around them, leans forward like he’s telling me a secret. “I’ve been given power. More power than I think you’re aware of. If that weren’t the case, would you be here now?”
“But the Scriptures say—”
“Propaganda.”
“Of course you’d say that.”
“It doesn’t change the fact: I can offer you a life with Jake.”
I shouldn’t consider it. I shouldn’t ask the next question, but I’m stupid enough to keep talking. “What would I have to do?”
“Wear this,” he says.
Where it comes from, I don’t know, but there in his hands
is a halo. Not Canaan’s. Canaan’s hangs from the crook of his elbow now. But this one is similar in size and shape, a slick ring the width of my thumb. A crown. But where Canaan’s is gold, the Prince’s seems made out of the yellow salt that surrounds us. Darker than Canaan’s, it matches the platform perfectly.
I lean closer, shielding the sun with my hands. I’m surprised by what I see: my own blue eyes staring back at me from the surface. A strand of blond hair is caught in my lashes; I brush it away and run my finger over the halo. It’s not made of salt. It’s crafted from some sort of mirrored surface. Dark when the light is closed out. Dull without the sun shining down on it. I suppose its beauty isn’t inherent like Canaan’s. I suppose it depends on what it’s reflecting. The Prince’s pale blue eyes come to mind. I sit up and find them now.
“What will I see?”
“The appeal isn’t in what you’ll see. It’s in what you won’t see.” He moves closer. “You won’t see fear. You won’t see pain. You won’t see the brokenness that surrounds you. And why should you? Why should you see the damage my war with the Creator has caused? It’s our battle to fight. Our dispute to settle.”
So many lies. They roll off his tongue like buttered candy, and yet there is truth in them. It tickles my ears, climbs inside my mind and nests. I think of all the glorious, wonderful things I’ve seen with Canaan’s halo: the angels and the light. The color and the fire of the celestial world. But sitting here with the devil staring back at me, I can’t think on any of that without remembering the fear and the darkness, the demons that slink so easily into our world, slide into our flesh and masquerade as mortals.
How many times will I have to see Helene’s battered body? Or Canaan’s wings stripped away? How much longer will I see
the fear that grows in Jake’s heart? That blossoms when the world tumbles out of control?
I feel thin, my bones brittle, the desert temptations threatening to break me. I can’t see the light without the darkness. I can’t see angels and not demons. I can’t unknow all that I’ve learned, but maybe, just maybe I can unsee.
There’s comfort in the idea. That I don’t have to open my eyes to every fear that clings to others. It’s an ignorance that sounds suspiciously like freedom. And yet . . .
“I won’t deprive you of Canaan’s halo,” the Prince says, setting it down next to his. “It’s yours to take as well. But take this one, wear it when seeing becomes too much. And I promise you: soon, it will be too much.”
I feel the threat in his words, his hatred evident. He’ll do anything to stop the Creator’s plans for Stratus.
“That’s all?” I ask. I don’t believe him. I want to, but I don’t. “You want me to accept your crown and you’ll promise me Jake?”
“Forever,” he says.
“You don’t hold forever in your hands. I know that much.”
“You know nothing.”
“What if I die? What if Jake dies? You can’t stop that.”
“I just stopped it for your father.”
It’s true. He did.
I reach a hand out and run my finger along the rim of the dark halo once again. It’s cool—a reprieve from the heat of the desert. The metaphors are endless. It’s so easy. So tempting. I could have both.
“You’ve spoken with Jake?”
“I have.”
“He$b his hand wouldn’t want me to take this from you.”
“Stratus is under attack. The fighting is going to be severe. The Creator has unleashed His Sabres. They’re going to tear through the veil, and I can’t have that. You shouldn’t want it either. If everyone can see the Celestial, what makes your gift special? What makes you
you
? War is unavoidable, but you need not be one of the casualties. You don’t have to see the carnage. This will keep your eyes safe, your mind protected. It will keep your heart in one piece. Why wouldn’t Jake want that?”
He lifts his crown from the salt platform. It reflects my shirt, my chin. He holds it in his ivory hands, and together we watch as it transforms into an arm cuff. So similar to Canaan’s, and yet so very, very different.
“Jake loves you. He wants forever with you. War breaks people. And I’m certain he wants you to be complete, to be whole for the rest of your life.”
Jake
would
want that. He’s a fixer; he’d want me in one piece.
“Did you terightens her b
A
tiny girl appears in front of me. I recognize her, but only by the ferocity on her face, the graceful quickness of her moves. I’ve not seen her human form before.
“Pearla?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m Pearla.” She’s wearing a simple orange shift over her creamy black skin. Her hair is pulled into a knot atop her head. She looks like she’s ten years old at the most, but I know she has thousands and thousands of years on me. “It seems you have a choice to make.” Her eyes are on my wrists. On the mirrored halo and the golden one.
When I speak my voice is small; her child eyes embarrass me. “He said I can keep both.”
“I think you’ll find that impossible,” she says. She points to my right wrist. “And I’d put that one on if I were you.”
I yank Canaan’s halo from my hand, and as soon as it’s transformed I slip it onto my head. The Celestial explodes before me. Light and color everywhere. Wings, both black and white; swords, both straight and crooked; every blink brings a new sight. By the time I’ve got my bearings, Pearla is gone.
I see the Prince. Just as Canaan was recognizable in the Celestial, the Prince’s form is still distinguishable from the other angels filling the skies. His celestial body is taller, broader. I wish he were hideous. I wish he looked like a twisted gargoyle, but he doesn’t. He’s glorious. His black-tipped wings set him apart from the angels of light, but from the ground that’s nearly all that does.
Several charred, heavily armed demons hover at his back. Before him, three demons engage two enormous angelic Warriors. Warriors of light. It’s hard to tell from here, but they look nearly as tall as the Sabres. Their chests are covered in armor, their swords drawn. One, a male with rust-colored hair and a bow slung over his shoulder, swings his sword valiantly, an arrow between his teeth. Next to him is a female. Her skin is dark and light all at the same time, and her raven hair is tangled in the feathers jutting from her back. A wild ferocity curls her lips as she darts back and forth. She’s fast. And smart. She flattens her wings out and spins, her hair whipping one way, her sword the other. The demon before her takes a face full of hair before her sword slices from one of his hips to the other. He hisses and spits into nothingness.
The male bend&obow entirelys his feathered wing, positioning it like a shield, his sword swinging at the two remaining demons. There’s something very Peter Pan about him. He’s enjoying this. With a flick of his wrist, a demon is disarmed, his sword falling away. The beast is stupid and glances after it. And that’s when he’s smacked in the face with that shrugged wing. The demon’s head flies back, his helmet askew, leaving a sliver of his throat vulnerable. Pan’s sword finds it, and with a burst of ash the demon vanishes.
But the final demon is closer now. His crooked sword slices through the Warrior’s feathers, knocking away his sword of light. The demon squeals and taunts, swinging his blade eagerly. I look to the female. I don’t think she’s close enough to help, but she tries, pushing her wings hard. It seems Pan is just as quick as she is. With movements too fast and too precise for me to track, he slides his bow over his shoulder, nocks it, and looses an arrow into the demon’s face.
I’m amazed. Stunned.
I glance to the Prince, to the demons at his back. I wonder if he’ll send in more to take the place of those he’s lost. Is that how this works?
Before I’ve received an answer, a massive white angel soars overhead, his sword drawn, a tiny black cherub at his back. This has to be Michael. I’ve only heard stories, but there’s no mistaking him. As large as the Prince, armored, a golden helmet on his head, a spear at his back and a sword of light in his hand, he flies hard.
The Prince lurches around. His face hardens, and he raises his sword high. His mouth opens, and the most hideous sound I’ve ever heard pours from his lips. I throw my hands over my ears and slam my face to the platform. I feel the cut it makes, the salt that stings it, but the sound . . . the sound . . .
I’ve heard Damien do this once, cry for his brothers. But this is a hundred times worse. It’s all my agony, all the fear I’ve ever felt, all the pain I’ve ever suffered in one constant note.
And it feels like it drones on forever.
When at last the Prince quiets, I tip my face to the sky, my hands still close to my ears. And I swear my heart stops.
The Guard around the Prince has doubled. With the Prince
at their head, they fly in formation toward Michael. Where Pearla’s gone, I can’t say, but Michael’s two Warriors flank him, the male on one side and the female on the other. And then from the sky itself a warhorse emerges, a creature of cloud and light. Michael falls astride the animal and in the same moment hefts his massive spear toward the Prince. The Prince collapses his wings and drops, avoiding the spear. The Guard behind him scatters as the spear divides their forces. Before they can regroup, two more warhorses surface between them, one with a coat of cerulean blue, the other a mottled yellow and orange. They rear up on their hind legs, batting at the Guard, keeping them divided in half.
The female flies toward the group on the right, the male taking those on the left, their horses snorting and pawing, bucking and causing confusion among the Prince&">
W
hen I wake, I’m in Jake’s arms. I think we’re on a couch, but it’s hard to tell. It’s hot, so I start to panic, but then I realize I’ve somehow ended up in his sweatshirt again. Sand and salt chafe wherever my clothes touch my skin, but I don’t care.
Jake’s here. Wherever here is.
I tell my eyes to open but they refuse. Minutes pass before I’m finally able to force them into slits. Jake hangs over me, one hand on my fo
My eyes fall shut again.
And the nightmares find me.
They’re worse than they’ve ever been. I watch my mother disappear three, four, five times. Into the same flames that killed Olivia’s mother; the same flames that melted the skin on Olivia’s legs. On every wrist I see a mirrored halo. And echoing from every mouth, the Prince’s words.
“Don’t be a casualty of this war.”
Sometime later I wake. My wrists are heavy with the weight of two halos. I have no idea how I got back to Stratus, no idea how the golden halo got moved from my head to my wrist. I have a small, silent panic attack when I realize Jake’s probably seen the Prince’s halo. I can’t imagine what he thinks about it and I want to explain, but he’s asleep now. His face is pressing into my shoulder, his legs curled around mine. It’s hard to tell where he ends and I begin, and though I’m far from comfortable, I don’t dare move. Because when he wakes and we’re torn apart, he’ll have questions, and I’m not sure I’ll have answers. I tug both halos off my wrists and jam them into the large sweatshirt pocket.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering just how I got here. How I got landed with a choice I never wanted to make. And no matter how I turn it over in my mind, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve lost somehow.
And I don’t know . . . I can’t tell . . .
Was it the first lie I told the Prince or the first truth that undid me?
