“Canaan?” I yell, his wings whipping hot air against us. “What’s happening?”
“Watch,” he says, his mind as calm as ever. “Just watch.”
Our hands clenched, our breathing fast, Jake and I watch as the wings of the Sabres tear through the Terrestrial veil.
15
Brielle
Helene meets us in the skies, the lake a golden mirror below us. Her auburn hair flies about, red leaves blown on a warm celestial breeze.
“You saw them, then?” Canaan’s mind asks.
“I did,” she answers. “Did you know they were here?”
“No, I’ve heard nothing from the Throne Room. You?”
“Nothing. I’d very much like to see Virtue. Is he among them?”
“He is.”
Her white gaze travels beyond Canaan’s wings. I’ve never seen her so eager. “Will you join me?”
“I shouldn’t. It isn’t safe for Jake and Brielle.”
“Yes, and they’re needed back at the picnic area. I should have told you. The others are ready to go.”
“It’s not far, Canaan,” I say. I can tell they’d like to see their brothers.
“Yeah, we can see the campground now,” Jake says. “Drop us here. We’ll walk.”
“Well, don’t actually drop us,” I say.
Canaan laughs. “Never.”
Jake’s right. The walk is short, and we’ve very little time to discuss the Sabres or their song. But it consumes me. Their precisely crafted wings, violent in their beauty. Their worship—their stunning, sweet-smelling, harmonious worship—fills my mind. The air around me feels generic without it. Manufactured, unrefined. I’m struggling to explain my impressions to Jake when we emerge from the trees and the Terrestrial becomes far more real than I’m ready to deal with.
Olivia’s guiding Dad to his truck. The food’s been packed away; Delia and Kaylee are nowhere in sight. Our festive picnic area looks forlorn, and my face falls. Seeing the Sabres was an experience I’d never trade, but I suddenly feel bad for abandoning the party.
There’s not much time to dwell on that, though.
Dad’s further gone than I realized. He stumbles, nearly taking Olivia down with him. Marco catches her and they laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. Marco grabs Dad’s other arm, and together they coax his foot up and onto the running board. The sight of their two slight figures hefting my father into his pickup drains the life and light that had blossomed in my chest. My feet are heavy, frozen to the dirt.
But Jake jumps in, taking Olivia’s spot and hoisting Dad up and in. With a hand to his chest, Jake holds Dad against the seat while Marco stretches the seat belt across Dad’s lap.
Olivia stands with her hands on her hips, her long, dark hair hanging loose.
I hate her.
She did this. Dad was fine until he met her.
I step to her side. “You should have cut him off.”
“Me?” She doesn’t look nearly as offended as she should. “I hardly know him. But you—where were you?”
I want to slap her. I’d like to say I’m above that, but I’m not. She broke my dad.
I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
“I can take him.”
“No. You can’t.” I feel her gaze on me, sharp, like a knife. But I’ve been stabbed before, and I can handle the threat in her eyes.
“And just how am I getting home?”
“Jake,” I ask, walking toward the truck, “will you drive my car, take Marco and Olivia?”
He looks over his shoulder, his expression tender. “Whatever you need.”
And he means it. He’ll do anything to make this easier for me. There was a time, not long ago, when Dad was that person—the one who made it all better.
Olivia isn’t done talking. “What if I don’t want to ride with—”
“Then walk.” There’s a shrill edge to my words, and Dad rouses. His eyes swim in his head, but he’s aware enough to notice Jake’s hand on his chest. He swats at it.
“Dad!”
He leans past Marco and throws up. Jake sees it coming and tugs me out of the way, his arms the only thing tethering me to sanity.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him.
“Hey,” Jake whispers, holding me tight. “It’s not a problem.”
Tears roll down my face as I look at the wreck Dad has become. When he’s done emptying his stomach, I dig a beach towel out of my bag and mop his face, the others looking silently on. I’m ashamed. Of my dad. Of the little amber bottles that have turned him into an idiot. Of the fact that he’s turned me—his nineteen-year-old daughter—into his babysitter.
Jake walks me to the driver’s side and opens the door for me. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, lifting me into the