Canaan’s golden brow creases. “Do you know what they are?”
“He’s expressed interest in a bracelet. He’s engaged help to secure it. A woman by the name of . . .”
“Olivia,” Jake says, his eyes wide. “Olivia Holt.”
Pearla nods.
Jake’s voice is so very human, desperate. Pearla’s never understood such desperation. “They have the halo, Canaan. Olivia has it. They’ll be after us next. We can’t leave her. Canaan, we can’t.”
Pearla doesn’t understand Jake’s reference to the halo, but she dare not interrupt. Emotions are running high, and she’s only a Cherub. She’s to observe and report, not engage.
Canaan’s wings tighten around his charge. “We’ll leave you, Commander. It seems Jake and I have things to discuss.”
The Commander clasps Canaan on the shoulder. “Blessings, friend. If you find yourself needing a demon to destroy, you are welcome in our ranks.”
“Perhaps I will take you up on that one day. For now, God be with you.”
“And you.”
Pearla watches as Canaan turns away, his face pointed to the ground. He falls hard and fast toward the earth below. Toward the terra firma humans are so comfortable inhabiting.
“Follow them, Pearla.”
Michael’s instruction confuses her. “Commander?”
Emerging from the celestial sky, Loyal appears at Michael’s side, snorting, ready for battle. The Commander’s wings lift him high above the animal before lowering him onto the warhorse’s back.
“That boy’s face told me everything I need to know. Canaan may counsel against it, but Jake’s going after the girl.”
“But he could die . . .”
The Commander’s face takes on a soft glow. “He loves her, Cherub. Her life is worth more to him than his own.”
“Yes, sir.” It seems Pearla will have a chance to engage after all. She rather likes the idea.
“My prayers go with you, little one. Fly fast.”
Pearla nods and dives after the Shield, her mind sorting through this new assignment. It’s the greatest expression of love, she knows, to lay one’s life down. But she wonders if humans know just how unique the ability is to do that. Death is not something an angel has to offer her loved ones. How glorious it must be to have one’s days numbered by the Father.
How precious it makes each and every one.
35
Brielle
Elle?”
Kaylee stands on the porch stairs, her phone in her hand, her face white. And though it’s my name lingering in the air, her eyes are not on me. She’s staring at Damien—who, for reasons passing all understanding, is standing between us in his human form.
“Go back inside,” I tell her.
It’s a stupid thing to say. She’s no safer there, but at least I won’t have to see the terror bubbling from her eyes, snaking like an adder down her cheeks.
Dad steps onto the porch. Damien is three feet from me, but the thing that grabs my attention is Dad’s empty hand. He’s relinquished his death grip on the beer bottle’s neck. I hope he chose to do so before downing the last few gulps.
“Who are you?” he says, looking Damien up and down.
“Dad . . .”
“Inside,” Damien growls. “All of you.”
“Says who?” Dad is indignant.
Damien strides to the porch. Kaylee tries to back away, but trips over the top stair. She lands on her backside, her elbows smacking the wood flooring. The fear running down her face multiplies, and I see Damien sniff at the air and grin as he bends and yanks the phone from her hands.
“Hey!” Dad says. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Damien jerks upright and slides Kaylee’s phone into his pocket.
“I said inside. If you want either of these girls to survive the day, you’ll comply.”
Dad’s ruddy face is splotchy now, red and white and ticked all over. Indignant, he’s unpredictable, but tipsy and indignant, Dad is just plain stupid. He takes a swing at Damien.
I groan and squeal all at once, but Damien avoids the blow. He steps back, his black dress shoes crunching in the gravel. Dad tumbles past Kaylee and down the stairs. He lands on his hands and knees at Damien’s feet.
I rush to his side, but Dad’s on his feet again before I can intervene.
“I wouldn’t, Mr. Matthews.” Damien’s use of our last name is too intimate, too real.
I wrap my fingers—all ten of them—around Dad’s forearm, praying he’ll see reason. Praying he’ll tame his temper for a few brief moments. But he shrugs me off, more irrational than ever. He curses and shoves passed me, but I throw myself between him and Damien. I’m sure it looks like I’m protecting Damien—this