Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (14 page)

“Maybe if I kill Henry,” she says, her voice flat, her eyes like flint. “Maybe that’ll make me better.”

Her words sting; a lemon squeezed into a heart that’s been cut open and laid bare. Is that all he’s been doing? Trying to feel better?

“Look to your own chains, Houdini, before you cough up the key to mine.” She turns to walk away, but Marco grabs her elbow. She jerks free and slips into the darkness beneath the staircase.

Marco can feel the tears burning his eyes, the sob tearing at the back of his throat. He coughs to clear it away, but all it does is settle a little lower, in his chest. Next to the hole Ali left.

Kaylee pushes herself off the bottom stair and steps toward Marco. She wraps her arms around his middle and squeezes. “I’m sorry, Marco Mysterioso,” she whispers.

He clears his throat again, harder this time. “Here, let me look at your face.”

Marco moves her onto the stairs, under the single bulb where he can see everything a little better.

“I finally got hold of Canaan,” Kay says while he pokes and prods at her cheek.

“Did you tell him about Damien?”

“Ouch. Yeah. He’s on his way.”

“Here?” Liv asks, stepping out from beneath the stairs, her shirt straightened, her hair pulled into a low knot.

“I think this is just a bad bruise, Kay. And a lot of swelling. You’re lucky he didn’t break your eye socket.”

“Canaan’s coming here?” Liv tries again.

“Oh no, not here,” Kaylee says. “He’s on his way to Danakil.”

Marco pulls back. “As in the Danakil Depression?”

“If by ‘depression’ you mean desert, then yes. That’s where Damien’s taking them. To the desert to meet Satan. Terrifying, right?” But she doesn’t look terrified. She looks . . . exhilarated. “All righty, Marco, if you’d like a ride, you’re more than welcome. Liv, you can drive yourself home. No offense, but until we know we can trust you, you’ll have to stay out of Stratus.”

Liv snorts. “Oh, sweetie. You don’t have that kind of power.”

“No, but I do.” Helene appears in the center of their little circle. Kaylee jumps, Liv squeals, and even Marco gasps at her sudden appearance.

“You too?” Liv asks. “Use a door or something next time. Climb a stair.”

Helene’s wearing a long, pale dress that reminds Marco of a toga. Her auburn hair is braided and twisted into a circlet atop her head. But he sees so much more than her appearance when he looks at her.

“You broke me out of jail,” he says.

“You’re fighting the doubt.” Her eyes are bright, her smile wide. “That’s good.”

“But why?” He can’t comprehend it. “I was accused of murder. Why free me?”

“Providence. Those things are God’s call, not mine.”

Providence.
The word that won’t die. It crashes through
Marco’s mind like a rhinoceros, wreaking havoc, turning everything over.

Helene shifts her gaze to Liv. “I’ll be staying with you for a while.”

Liv shakes out her shoulders, her carefully maintained composure all but gone. “You wanna drag your claws down my arm too? Mark me? Stake a claim? You’re a little late for that.”

“No claws,” Helene says, her eyes tender. “Just me. Shielding you.”

Liv huffs. “Any way I can talk you out of that?”

“Sorry,” Helene says, sarcasm notably absent from her tone. “You don’t have that kind of power.”

Liv bristles. “Well, just . . . just stay invisible, all right?” She stomps past Marco and Kaylee, her shoes ringing against the stairs.

Marco watches her go, and then Helene steps toward him.

“Be wise,” she says. “Be brave.” With a nod, she turns away.

“Thank you,” Marco says, his words rushed, afraid she’ll go before he can say them. “For what you did, breaking me out. You gave me a chance to make things right. To tell my story. If you hadn’t come . . .”

“I was the Father’s hands and feet, Marco. Nothing more.” She’s so small, so like Ali. Same delicate face, same tiny hands. “He wanted your story told. He gave you that chance. I just unlocked the door.”

She did a lot more than that. He knows she did, and he has questions, so many of them, but with a wink at Kaylee, Helene disappears.

“I’m not a fan of the whole vanishing thing,” Kaylee says. “It’s very
I
Dream
of
Jeannie.
”

“It’s the reappearing part that freaks me out.”

“Yeah. That too.” Kaylee rubs her jaw, looks around. “There’s no way we’re going to beat that exit, but are you ready?”

“Yeah. Let me just . . .” Marco stoops to gather up his belongings still strewn across the floor. His bag, a T-sadies her frie

14

Brielle

I
t’s a long time before either of us says a word. I’ve deflated. The need to talk, to make sure Jake knew how I felt about him, had grown in the hours he was gone. Not just gone—taken. It sat in my chest like an ever-expanding balloon pressing the words from my mouth, forcing my fears into the open air. Now, crammed against one another, shoved against Damien’s body, my words have been sucked away by the reality burning in Jake’s eyes.

We’re going to see the Prince.

Celestial heat presses against Damien’s inner wings, warming one side of my body, while the other, the side pressed against his chest, burns with an icy chill.

The ocean shines below us, so bright, so blue it’s hard to believe dark waters lie beneath its waves. Fathoms and fathoms of it. Eventually land replaces water, but whether it’s hours or minutes that pass, I couldn’t say. Jake and I both drift in and out of consciousness. The violent stains of his assaulted body fill the space between us, and when I close my eyes, the red flames seep through my eyelids. I don’t dream, and for that I’m grateful. The flames are terrifying enough.

Are we flying over the States? Are we flying across the Atlantic? Are there other avenues open to the angelic that mortals are unaware of? These questions pass through my mind like a train that blunders right through its scheduled stop. I don’t know and I don’t really care. Not enough to sort out the answers. Soon enough we’ll be standing before the Prince. And while there are so many things I don’t know, I’m fairly certain about one.

“He’ll separate us,” I shout over the flapping of wings.

Jake tries to answer, but the fiery red stains pulsing all over his body flare, and he clamps his mouth and eyes shut. The colors lighting his face dim, and he squeezes my hand tighter in response.

His strength is waning, but he doesn’t have to answer now. Months ago he told me the way evil would most likely use two souls bound like ours. The Prince will separate us. Divide us. He’ll tear us apart and use our bond against us. I never thought love could be used as a weapon. But in the hand of Darkness, I suppose most anything can.

Jake’s eyes flutter open and he shifts, pressing his shoulder into Damien. I must give him a strange look because he attempts to smile. “Gigantic ice pack.”

“I wish I could fix you,” I say.

“I wish you could too.”& the otherow entirely

Damien snaps his wings wide, tilting to the right on currents of celestial air. Wind snakes by, but it’s quieter without the beating of wings to contend with.

“When I said ‘I love you,’ you didn’t say it back,” I say.

A hint of Jake’s crooked smile emerges. “You didn’t give me a chance.”

“You do. I mean, I know you do. Your eyes say it every day, but you’ve never said it out loud. I just . . .”

Damien chuckles. Not in our heads. No, he’s much more brash about it. He opens his mouth and a demented sort of cackle ripples through the air. A braying donkey. A laughing hyena.

He’s listening.

Of course he’s listening.

Jake’s smile disappears and he presses his face closer, violence coloring him red. He’s hurting, but he opens his mouth to speak.

It’s wrong. So, so wrong. I don’t want to share this moment with anyone. Certainly not with Damien—a monster who’s actually killed me, who’s stolen and beaten the guy I want to spend every one of my days with.

I press my lips to Jake’s, the words caught somewhere between us.

“Tell me later,” I say. “When we’re back in Stratus.”

“Deal,” he says, peering at me with half-open eyes. His lips are moist, shimmering like sunset waves. I lean in once more, but Damien wraps his charred outer wings tight against us and we fall into a dive.

Our faces connect, my lip splitting against his tooth. Jake presses the hand of his good arm to my chest, lifting me from his face and steadying me against Damien’s inner wing. But the pressure is intense. Damien’s wings continue to tighten, and Jake’s arm bends. He can’t hold me at a distance any longer. The strength in his arm gives out and our faces press together, my lips settling into the soft curve of his cheek, my eyes pushed tightly against his forehead.

And then I hear music. It comes in bursts and fades, but I swear I hear it. It’s caught in the wind, but it’s there. A voice. Loud, robust. I force my eyes open and tip my chin up, but black feathers are the only thing I see.

“Canaan,” Jake says, his voice muffled, his mouth moving against my lips. “It’s Canaan.”

Jake’s arms tighten around my waist, and my skin tingles with the hope his name brings.

Canaan!

If he’s here, that means Kaylee was able to call for help. If he’s here, she must be safe. Or as safe as Kaylee ever is. But when Damien rights us and his outer wings part like gothic curtains torn asund& this owpD;er, I am wholly unprepared for what I see.

We’re still strapped to him, a crusty-feeling platform beneath our feet. Dark forces—several hundred of them—surround us, swords drawn, wings at attention. Ugly, vicious sneers on every face. Some stare at us, salivating. Others hiss at Canaan, who stands opposite us.

Jake was right. He’s here, his mouth wide open, song pouring forth. His body bears the marks of countless demonic swords, the icy wounds hissing and smoking on his celestially hot skin. Amidst a field of lime and yellow patches of brittle-looking earth, he stands. As we watch, he’s forced to his knees. Tendrils of worship spiral from his chest and mouth. So bright, so fiery orange it’s nearly lost in the Creamsicle sky. On either side of him, a demon holds each arm.

But I’ve never seen demons like this. They’re huge. Bigger than Canaan. Bigger than Damien. Their chests are strapped with breastplates that cover the entire abdomen, chest, and shoulders. Interlocking dragon wings have been hammered into them. Each one’s head is covered in a distinct kind of helmet, shaped to protect the demon’s deformed skull. Their legs are also strapped with armor, like scales wrapping them from hip to ankle, leaving only their massive arms bare.

With talons sharpened to a point, they stretch Canaan’s arms wide. Another armored demon hovers above, shredding his wings, flaying white feather from bone. Canaan’s muscled body shudders at the abuse as down freckles the sky.

Blood and gore included, this has to be the most violent thing I’ve ever witnessed. I scream, my throat stinging with the effort. Jake’s voice fuses with mine, angry tears ripping down his face.

But as horrific as the sight is, our cries are lost in Canaan’s song. So loud. So strong. So vibrant.

Damien opens his inner wings, and we tumble to our knees.

“Canaan,” I whisper, looking around.

But the Celestial’s gone now. The demonic army is gone. One look behind me and I see Damien is gone. Our Shield, bloodied and broken, has been shrouded by the terrestrial veil. To any other human, it would seem Jake and I are alone in this wretched place, but we’re not so deceived. We’re not alone, and that fact is chilling even in the sweltering heat.

I stare gape-mouthed at Danakil. Like a torture chamber, a spiked ball and chain, a cat-o’-nine-tails, its cruelty couldn’t be more apparent.

The ground bites at my bare legs, at my hands. I expected sand. I expected dirt. But Danakil is unlike any desert I’ve seen in any photograph. Jake and I kneel on a knotty platform, similar to the one Canaan stood on just moments ago. I say a prayer for him and another. Next to me Jake’s words are indecipherable, but I know he’s praying as well. I wrap my arm around his waist, trying to keep the weight off his shoulder. Trying to do anything to make this easier for him. But everything here hurts.

The platform below us pricks like coral beneath my legs, but
when I scrape my fingernails&reinow against it, tiny granules slip under my nails and stick to the pads of my fingers. I rub them against my palm.

“Salt,” Jake says, dabbing a finger to his tongue. I do the same. I notice then how stiff my upper lip is. I pull my hand away to see flecks of dried blood. I’ve split my lip a couple of times in the hours that have passed, but there’s no cut now. The scrape on my chin has also healed, leaving behind only a stained face and collar. Being pressed against Jake has many, many advantages.

“There’s so much of it,” Jake says, crushing the salt between his thumb and forefinger.

“A wasteland of salt,”
Canaan had said. He wasn’t kidding. The salt has formed enormous flat lumps that jut from the ground like trodden mushrooms. They surround us, an army of petrified suction cups spread across the desert. I start to count them, but there are too many.