way to lose an arm. I set to examining the nearest one. He’s gigantic, like Jake said. And his eyes are pure white, trademark white. Like Canaan’s. Like Helene’s. He has the celestial gaze of one who’d lay down his life for another. His skin, too, is white, so white it looks almost silver. His muscled arms and chest make Canaan look trim. But as much as I can find things to admire about his physique, it’s his wings that so separate him from any other angel I’ve seen.
Their beauty is staggering, their design inexplicable. Where I expect to see rows and rows of snowy white feathers, one blade lies on top of another—thousands of them—sharp and glistening silver. I can’t help but compare each and every one of them to the dagger that pierced my chest this past December. To the instrument of death that bled me dry on a rooftop.
Yet these blades are pristine, polished, organic even. The Sabre adjusts them and they ripple, a trilling tune making its way to my ears. His kinsmen do the same, and the skies fill with music. Loud, warlike, with a tremor of delicate strings woven through it. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard. My throat tightens with emotion, and I gasp again and again.
Canaan’s voice sounds in my mind: “These are the twelve who originally reported to Lucifer himself.”
I remember now that Lucifer was created to be the Chief Worshiper, and yet I find it hard to believe that the Prince of Darkness could be as beautiful as these.
“Leaders of song,” Canaan continues. “Their wings are instrumental wonders, their vocal prowess unmatched. At the Prince’s command, these twelve were responsible for leading all of the heavens into worship of the Creator.”
Canaan sets us down near their crude circle, but he doesn’t release us from his embrace. There’s a Sabre kneeling ten yards to our left, his hands cupped before him. Another stands just in front of us. His wings tower high above his head and scrape the rock at his feet, hundreds and hundreds of daggers making up his wingspan. They rub one against the other, trembling, sending music far and wide.
He doesn’t acknowledge us in any way. None of them do. They’re lost in worship.
Their song fills the air, and with my feet so close to the earth, it’s all I can do not to fight against Canaan’s hold, so deep is my desire to dance.
I think of Moses on the mountaintop, a story I read in my mother’s Bible. I remember the burning bush and the voice speaking out of it, telling Moses to take off his shoes. Telling him he was on holy ground. It makes sense to me now.
The Sabres open their mouths and lift up a song, and tears pour down my face at the sound. I sniff, trying to keep another round at bay, and that’s when the fragrance catches my nose.
It’s the smell of worship.
Sweet like honey and smoky like a campfire. Deep and thick like the ocean’s waters and fresh like their spray all in one inhalation.
I turn to Jake. Tears dampen his face, and his eyes are riveted on the sky above us. I tilt my head to see. Tendrils of smoke waft into the sky, bright colorful incense. It curls from the chests of the Sabres as they sing and lingers above us.
Canaan’s voice seeps softly into my mind. “It’s time to go,” he says.
I want to plead with him for just a minute more, but his outer wings are already moving, pushing us away from the Sabres and back toward Mount Bachelor.
Jake says, “That was . . . it was . . .” But he can’t seem to finish the thought. I understand entirely.
“Keep your eyes on the sky,” Canaan says.
The gentle tenor of his voice stills me, calms my hurried heart. In the distance the Sabres continue to worship, their wings sending mirror-like reflections bouncing across the sky. Tendrils of incense twist from their mouths, from their wings, climbing higher and higher, tangling with the scent of worship pouring from the others.
One final ice-blue tendril curls toward those of his kin. Up and around it loops, twisting like a ribbon around the bundle, lifting the sweet smell of their worship ever skyward.
The sky sparks. I grab Jake’s hand as it hisses, spitting light and color in every direction. The Sabres’ song grows louder, more insistent. Their wings continue to play, whirling faster and faster, eventually lifting each one