Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) - By Shannon Dittemore

1

Pearla

Hell is loud.

Talons scratch at the stone floor and clack against the pillars circling the chamber as the great hall fills. Hisses and snarls sound all around, but the noise doesn’t unsettle the Cherub.

She’s been here before.

Carved into the earth, deep against its core—in a realm undetectable by human technology—lies the stronghold of Satan. A massive structure formed out of darkness, molded and hardened into stone, Abaddon sits at the very center of the Prince’s domain.

Pearla’s velvety black skin goes unnoticed as she slides behind a chunky pillar, pressing against the outer wall.

But the cherubic spy isn’t deceived by the darkness that surrounds her. This place was created for the Prince, given to him by the Creator. And while the light of the Celestial won’t permeate these walls, even here the Father cannot be escaped. Unlike the demonic crowd scratching and biting at one another, this created one experiences peace.

Her celestial feet are silent against the icy floor, her wings folded tight against her back. She keeps her white eyes pinched tight. Nothing draws attention like shards of light piercing the darkness.

And darkness is everywhere.

Pearla slinks from pillar to pillar, feeling the rough rock with her hands, searching for a familiar crevice. When at last she reaches it, she slides inside, deep into the rock wall. Facing away from the chamber, she opens her eyes just wide enough to guide her climb. She’s nimble and fast, scaling the wall with precision. Pearla locates a crag high above the pillars circling the room, high above the crowd of demons pushing and shoving and jockeying for position, and wedges herself far into the wall. The silky black wings—characteristic of cherubic spies—whisper against rock as she unfurls them and covers herself. Her gaze penetrates her wings and she watches.

And she waits.

The circular hall is ringed by rows and rows of demons. She’s seen some of their grotesque faces before. As members of the Prince’s guard they rarely leave Abaddon without the Prince; if they do, they do so in small numbers. His guard is made up of the most loyal, the most trusted demons. But there are others here: fallen angels with smaller, less important roles in the devil’s stronghold. With so many in attendance, Pearla wonders if the Prince himself will preside over this assembly, a task he normally delegates.

Rumors lend credence to this idea—reports that indicate the entire Palatine legion is on the move. Sources insist they’ve returned to Abaddon to receive new orders. But it defies logic. Why return thousands and thousands of the Prince’s best warriors to their fortress when a small council would suffice? But the rumors persist, and as the commander of the Creator’s forces, Michael is giving them due consideration. If they’re true, a movement like this indicates an attack of ambitious proportion.

But where?

With a victory in Uganda imminent, the legion of light will be ready to move. And there’s no Warrior better suited for a war against the Palatine than Michael, the Commander himself.

Pearla closes her eyes against the chaos below and imagines herself back in the Throne Room of the Father. Magnificent in its beauty with everything in good order. The Father glowing bright, a river of gold flowing from His throne. The Thrones—wisest of the angels—wrapped head to toe in feathers of white, hovering about the Father, singing His praises, echoing one another back and forth. Pearla fights to control her lips as memories of the Creator’s goodness well up in her soul.

Worthy! Worthy! No one else is worthy! she thinks.

And then another sound, a terrifying sound, pulls her back to hell. It’s the sound of bondage. Of slavery. She wills herself to remain steady as the hiss and spit of fiery chains against the cold, moist floor draws excitement from the Fallen crowded about.

A lone demon is led into the hall by a small band. They prod and poke at him like a wayward cow. When they reach the center of the room, they latch his chains to the floor. With little ceremony they leave him to stand alone before a pathetic replica of the Father’s throne.

The Prince’s seat of power is not without grandeur, but where the Father’s throne is constructed of the purest gold and gemstones, here an extravagant dais has been carved out of rock. Behind it, a slab rises high with strange symbols and designs cut into the stone. Chief among them is a dragon, his teeth menacing, his scales polished to a shine. His tail wraps around the