Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (4 page)
Finally, with a decidedly more curious expression on his face, the Prince opens his mind to those gathered.
“I see.” He stretches his wings luxuriously wide so they gently brush the arms of his throne. Then he settles back and raises a fear-streaked hand before his face. “Hands like ours.”
“Yes, Lord Prince.”
The Prince doesn’t sigh, but everything about his posture says he’d like to. “It is now widely known, Damien, that you and your brothers allowed a Shield to claim the victory that night.”
Before Damien can unleash an argument, Maka intercedes. “There were two, Lord Prince. Two Shields.”
“Two? Well then.” The Prince turns his eyes on Maka, quelling him with sarcasm. “I’ll not patronize you, Damien; this information
is
valuable and something must be done with the boy. And yet the question begs to be asked: of what value are you to me? You, with eyes so frail and weak . . .”
“You could fix that.”
They’re dangerous words for Damien to utter, and the assembly reacts as such. Pearla expects nothing but satanic fury at the near-demand, but is surprised at the Prince’s docile treatment.
“I could, yes, but I’d prefer to return you to the pit for a millennium or two while another of your brothers—Maka, maybe—handles this boy.”
“Lord Prince—”
“What’s to stop me from doing that, Damien?”
“Because this thing, whatever it is, has grown beyond just the boy, and I deserve a chance to make it right.”
“Deserve?” It’s Maka.
But the Prince interrupts. “Beyond the boy?” His mawkish voice is low now, rough. He tilts his head, the icy shadows pulling his nose and chin into darkness. “Tell me, Damien. Regale me with a tale that will change my mind.”
Pearla considers Damien. His straightened gait, his squared shoulders. He has the look of a gambler throwing his final card to the table. The one he’s hidden up his sleeve.
“She saw me,” he says. “The girl.”
The Prince stands. His face, once passive, is now rigid as stone, a sense of urgency pulling his wings tight.
“Saw. You.”
“Yes, my celestial form. This girl, this Brielle, saw through the terrestrial veil with understanding. It was like, like . . .”
“Like Elisha’s servant. In Dothan. The site of your last great failure.”
“Yes, Lord Prince.” Damien averts his eyes, but only briefly. Then he steps forward, toward the Prince, his face set. “She knew where I stood and what I did. She knew what the greatest expression of love looked like in the Celestial. Somehow, some way, Lord Prince, mankind is breaking into our realm.”
Even Pearla gasps at this revelation.
Yapping phrases like “the beginning of the end” begin to permeate the great hall. “Cataclysmic.” “Armageddon.”
The Prince stands silent for what seems like years, while the raging of the assembly builds. And then with measured, soundless footsteps, the Prince of Darkness crosses the floor. He lifts his hand toward Damien’s face—an offer of healing, it seems—and Damien steadies himself visibly for the honor. It’s not like the Prince to offer healing—even to one of his own—and Pearla is perplexed by the gesture.
But before the Prince can make contact, a noisy clatter echoes through the hall.
From the shadows, a small, blackened creature scurries—all four of its limbs moving one after the other. It’s an impish spy, the fallen counterpart to Pearla’s cherubic order, and she recoils at the sight of her traitorous kinsmen. His small, bat-like wings lift him here and there on his chaotic trot across the stone floor. When he reaches the river of fear running in a sticky trail from the Prince’s
arm, the creature groans in delight and swims through it toward his master.
The Prince’s hand, so close to Damien’s face, drops away, reaching down and allowing the imp to latch on to his fingers. It scurries up the Prince’s arm and shoulder, leaning past the lush black curls and into his ear.
The Prince’s face hardens at whatever he hears, and with pale fingers he pinches the imp like a naughty cat and drops him to the floor. The imp chirps and gurgles, sliding in the train of soupy fear, finally springing from the hall.
The Prince waits until the hall is free of the imp’s clamor, his face a carved stone. When at last silence returns, he reaches out a near-perfect hand, placing it on Damien’s eyes. Fear drips from the Prince’s arm and onto Damien’s chest, mingling with the thin coat of terror the Fallen always wear. With the lightest touch, the accuser of the brethren restores the demon’s celestial vision.
A swift movement, and his hand is gone.
Damien’s eyes snap open and the Prince watches him, awaits his response. Damien flinches, his large hands grip the sides of his head, and he wails in agony.
“Yes, Damien?” the Prince asks.
“You are . . .” His mind sputters. “You are beautiful.”
The Prince’s lips part in a specious smile. “But I will not forgive again.”
A flick of his wrist brings a scimitar to the Prince’s hand, its frostiness smoking. He slides it into the sheath at Damien’s waist. “Bring them to me at Danakil, Damien. The girl who saw through the veil and the boy with hands like
mine.
”
This order surprises Damien. “To Danakil?”
“You question me?”
Damien cowers now, his hands raised in surrender. “No, Lord Prince.”
“If these two are as
special
as you say—if they bear angelic gifts—I should very much like to meet them myself. Give their . . . abilities . . . a little test.”
The Prince’s wings flutter softly and then snap open. Grace and force.
“If you fail, brother,” he says, stepping into Damien’s face, “the cavernous pit will be nothing compared to my rage.”
Damien nods—a soldier ready for battle.
The Prince turns toward Maka. “Maka, are you ready to redeem yourself?”
There is something very, very wrong with the Prince of Darkness using the word
redeem
, but Maka stands tall, rising to the opportunity.
“I am. You know I am.”
“Good, then.”
The Prince’s wings take him back to his throne, where he hovers high above. Damien and Maka look on, the assembly growing restless.
“Hear me, brothers.” The Prince waits for silence. “Hear me! You who love freedom, arm yourselves. Prepare for battle.”
Pearla’s wings twitch as the Prince reaches his arms wide, his pale eyes roaming over hell’s manic hoard.
“The Sabres have been released.”
And like that, the chamber is a torrent of angry noise and skitter, of spastic movement, claws and wings and snarls. Pearla’s mind is just as chaotic.
“Calm yourselves!” the Prince cries, and silence permeates the hall once again. “This is not the first time the veil has
undergone attack. You remember, yes? The Sabres have torn through it before, but we repaired the damage. We were victorious. We will be victorious again.”
The once-slow trickle of fear leaking from beneath the Prince’s wing has spread, and now a waterfall of terror pours, hiding the bottom of both wings and covering the Prince’s lower body in the black tar.
Now he looks like darkness’s prince.
“The earth is mine. My domain. My veil. Mine to control. War is upon us.”
The noise is raucous, but the anger is tinted with celebration now. Amidst the chaos, Maka draws near the throne.
“Where, Lord Prince? Where will the Sabres attack?”
A terrifying smile splits the Prince’s face. “Can you not guess?”
Maka bows his head. He
can
guess, it seems, but his silence is nothing but an ache in Pearla’s chest. The Prince turns his eyes to Damien.
“You have fourteen days, brother. Fourteen days to secure the boy and the girl. After that—hear me, brothers—after that, the first demon to bring either of them to Danakil will be rewarded. And you, Damien, will never again see beyond the chasm.”
“Y-Yes, Lord Prince.”
“General Maka, I am putting the Palatine under your command. Have you confidence in yourself?”
“Pride, my Prince. I will not fail.”
“With ten thousand of my finest at your command, I don’t imagine you will. A defeat of that magnitude would demand consequences of severity.”
“I will. Not. Fail.”
“That pleases me. What say you about our brother Damien and his task?”
“I say fourteen days is too long. Surely he can secure them in less time.”
The Prince shakes fear from his wings. “It will take some days before your war band is ready, General.”
But Maka’s muscled form is taut. He’s not satisfied. “And the Sabres?”
The Prince places a pale white hand on Maka’s massive black shoulder. “Their progress will be slow, friend. I know them well, and they will not risk harming the humans. We have time. But, Damien,” he says, rounding on the fallen one, “come that fourteenth day, I will send the Palatine into Stratus to destroy the work of the Sabres. And I will have my prize whether you bring it to me or not.”
“Yes, Lord Prince.”
“Make your arrangements, then. And, Damien, keep your new eyes open. I imagine our old friend Michael won’t be long.”
Damien’s wings falter. “Light is already on the move?”
The Prince shrugs. “If not, they will be soon.”
“My lord?”
The Prince’s pale eyes search the cliffs. “You are not so naïve as to believe our walls don’t have ears, are you?”
Maka and Damien turn, following the Prince’s gaze.
“If their King doesn’t tell them, their Cherub will.”
Pearla’s legs tense.
“But what does it matter?” the Prince says. “The skies over Stratus will be ravaged. The boy with hands like ours and the girl who sees will be brought to me, yes? And the veil—”
“Will be restored.” This time it’s Maka who answers.
“Good, General Maka. This matter is now in your hands. Now go.”
Pearla doesn’t need to be asked again. Up, up, up and through the rocks, through the very earth itself she flies. Toward the Commander and the only army capable of handling the deadly forces of the Palatine.
W
hen I wake Sunday morning it’s early. The sky’s still black and my sheets are drenched with sweat. I take a raspy breath, but my chest feels tight, like my ribs are closing ranks. My heart presses against them, crowded.
It’s the first nightmare I’ve had in months. The twilit morn paints smears of color on my wall. I stare at them, trying to remember the details, but everything’s fuzzy.
A girl, her clothes torn, her skin burnt.
And fear. So much fear.
Shadows walk like men across my ceiling, and a shiver runs the length of my spine. The girl wasn’t alone, but with my waking eyes I can’t recall anything more. After another minute, I roll onto my stomach and press my hands beneath my pillow.
The halo’s gone.
I reach for my side table, feeling with my fingers. I drop to the floor, my quilt tangled about my legs. My knee falls on something hard. Something hot. I feel it through the blanket. I must have knocked the halo to the floor. Before the nightmare or during? I don’t know.
I shift and pull it from beneath my knee. There’s not much light to be found, not much light for the halo to grab and reflect, but it seems to have found every bit of it. I slide it beneath my pillow and climb back onto the bed. The minute my head hits the pillow, colors swirl on the insides of my eyelids. Red and orange, blue and green, purple. Again and again, lulling, mesmerizing me until at last I’m asleep.
This time I don’t dream.
But I don’t sleep long either. A couple hours at most. When I wake, it’s to the sound of the Beach Boys and the smell of bacon.
Dad’s singing, which should really never happen. He drums dual spatulas on my quilt-covered bum for ninety-eight seconds solid before his rendition of “Surfer Girl” gets so bad I lose count. I curl into a ball, hoping to burrow through my mattress to a place where there are no singing, drumming lumberjacks.
But he’s incorrigible.
“Stop drumming. Stop, stop, stop. I’ll get up. I will. Hey! I will.”
He ignores me, moving the spatulas down to the exposed soles of my feet, where they make a slapping sound. “Do you love me, do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl. Surfer girrrrlllll . . .”
“Please, please stop singing.”
I throw the pillow over my head, but he continues on and I’m forced to plot his demise. My plan requires a well-aimed ninja-kick to distract him and catlike reflexes to grab the makeshift drumsticks. But he’s fast for such a big guy, and the moment I throw my halfhearted kick, he’s across the room, smiling at me from between the slots of a spatula.
“Mornin’, baby,” he says. “I made pancakes.”
I shove the hair out of my face, trying to huff and puff, but I’m a sucker for pancakes.
“You know you want some.”
I shove at the sheet and blanket, trying to find my legs. “Can I shower first?”
“Sure,” he says, his red freckles brightened by his performance. “Made bacon too, but that’s been disposed of.” He taps the spatula against his brawny gut.
“That’s all right,” I say, finally freeing my right leg. “I’ve had more than enough ham this morning.”
“Hardy har.”
“Hardy har yourself. Now, out. Let me shower.” Left leg’s finally free. “And just so you know, I’ll be mad at you until after I’ve had my first pancake. You put chocolate chips in them?”
“Nah, we ran out.”
“Then I’ll be mad until I’ve had at least two pancakes.”
“Fair enough,” he says, closing the door behind him.
I’m a mess, I feel it. My neck is sticky with dried sweat and my head aches. My sheets are knotted and my quilt’s flipped sideways.
I hate waking up like a zombie. Especially the mean kind. I zone out for a sec, the poster above my desk catching my eye. The child Cosette stares back at me, the words
Les Misérables
a banner over her sorrow. It’s my absolute favorite musical. There isn’t a lick of dancing in the whole production, but something about it swirls in my gut, rallying me to the cause of freedom. I can’t watch it without weeping, without feeling the need to sweep up a flag and wave it madly.
Ali tried to convince me to try out for it once, but there’s so much singing. The whole glorious thing is singing. And, well, I
sing like my dad, only with far less bravado and never, ever with spatulas.
