onto my hand. It twists and turns, inching up my arm. Cold. So very, very cold.
“Now pray,” he says.
But my hand trembles and my mind slows. “I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”
So Jake prays in my place. Words of faith. Words of fire. He speaks promises from Scripture. That God won’t leave us or forsake us. That He’s conquered fear and we, His children, aren’t subject to its bondage. He prays the words I can’t find, brave words. I watch, riveted as the light, the celestial air around us, sparks like the striking of a match. Sizzling stars assault the black sludge on Jake’s shoulders, setting it ablaze. My eyes water at the stink of burning rubber, but I watch until every last clot of fear turns to smoke.
His words did that.
His faith set fear on fire.
“That’s . . . that’s new.”
Jake sits taller now, the weight of terror lifted. “I haven’t been trying to hide my fears, Elle. I’ve been trying to destroy them before they attack both of us. We’ve spent this last seven months getting to know one another, but I haven’t done enough to teach you how to fight. I haven’t done enough to show you that the fear you see—every fear you see—can be destroyed. I’m sorry about that.”
“I . . . I forgive you?”
“Good.” He laughs. “Thank you.”
“So it’s prayer, then. Prayer is how I fight.”
“And Scripture. Scripture is like acid to fear if it’s wielded correctly. But I can’t always see the fear, Elle. Not like you can. It’s far too easy for me to forget the burden it must be to you.”
“It’s not a burden if . . . I don’t see the fear if I’m not wearing the halo like this.”
“But you will. It’s your gift, Elle. One day you’ll see it all the time. You won’t be able to close your eyes to it, and you have to know how to fight.”
Jake’s eyes are on mine, the purity of love’s greatest expression gently caressing my face. But it’s not long before the tiniest drop of fear blossoms in his chest. Canaan told me once that the tragedy of fear isn’t that it can be used as a weapon by the Fallen, but that humans hold it inside their very being and can unleash it upon themselves unwittingly. Even now it worms its way to his shoulders where it multiplies, settling once again like armor he need not wear.
It seems something’s captured Jake’s heart. Something that keeps the fear tucked deep inside.
“What is it, Jake? What has you so afraid?”
His smile is a sad one. “Back so soon.”
“It’s not just my dad, is it?”
His mouth opens. It’s soft, there’s an answer there, but with the frenzy of wings, we’re pulled from the ground and airborne before he can say a thing.
14
Brielle
The dock falls away below us.
We’re flying.
And I hate flying.
Canaan’s voice sounds in my head. Loud. Excited. “There’s something you have to see.”
I can’t move much, his sinewy inner wings holding us tight. But Jake’s shoulder is pressed against mine, his grin wide, the fear gone.
“You good?” I ask over the beating of Canaan’s wings.
“Best part of being raised by an angel,” he says. “You?”
I twist my hand around and grab his, willing my gut to unclench as Mount Bachelor grows in front of us: a fat triangular mound with emerald green trees climbing up its sides. Dwindling patches of snow gleam like dollops of diamond frosting near the peak.
Bachelor’s an everyday sight for me. On a clear day, I can see it from almost anywhere in Stratus. At its tallest, the mountain stands just over nine thousand feet, and with the extended winters we court here in central Oregon, the ski area stays open longer than most resorts in the country. It’s one of the few legitimate reasons for visiting.
I’ve photographed it, skied it, even hiked the summit a few times, but seeing it like this—flying toward Bachelor with the eyes of an angel—the familiar suddenly becomes extraordinary.
“I wish I could photograph it like this,” I say, my voice raised. “Frame it. Hang it on the wall.”
“It’d be one heck of a conversation piece,” Jake says, his boyish scratch louder as well. “It wouldn’t be the same, though, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
The wind steals my reply, but I don’t repeat it. Instead, I close my eyes and let my imagination run wild. I imagine Dad staring at a picture of Mount Bachelor—of what it looks like