Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) - By Shannon Dittemore Page 0,1

platform, and clutched in his serpentine coils are thousands of brightly jeweled stars. The image, a symbol of the great dragon’s rebellion, has always disturbed Pearla.

And with the prisoner chained before the throne, it seems Pearla was right.

Lucifer himself is expected.

2

Brielle

I’m alone.

The room is full of people, but I don’t see them. Not clearly. They’re a blur of summer colors and shadowed faces as my legs push me across the stage. My arms bow and curve, matching my inhales and exhales. Flutes, clarinets, and instruments I can’t even name trill from the speakers, the music telling a story. The dance sharing a journey.

My journey.

Getting back to the stage was not an easy path, and my mind is full of the circumstances and the players that brought me here. I rise to my toes and I think of Ali, my closest friend. I think of the life that was taken from her. I think of her boyfriend, Marco, and the case built against him: smoke and mirrors to hide what really happened.

But truth is stronger than lies, and as the music slows, my black skirt whispers against my knees and I remember the first time I saw the Celestial. Light and life everywhere, and on every surface colors that never stop moving.

I think of the first time I saw Canaan, not as Jake’s guardian only, but as the angel he really is—his outer wings spread wide, Jake wrapped tightly in his inner wings and pressed safely against his chest.

The music changes, dropping into a minor key, and my movements become more ghost-like. I think of the fear that nearly destroyed me six months ago, of the doubt that ate away at truth and hope.

I think of Jake.

The music is all but silent now. My body moves slowly, deliberately, but my heart trips over itself at the thought of his fiery, hazel eyes, his healing touch.

It’s only right that my first performance is here, in Stratus, with him in the audience. With my dad and Canaan looking on, with Miss Macy cheering my feat from the wings. With Kaylee chattering away to Mr. Burns, telling him which pictures to snap.

The song builds, thundering drums that urge my legs faster and faster. The music crescendos and I spin, again and again. My hair pulls free of its knot, wild and free, like an angel in flight.

This choreography is my story. I let it swallow me, stretch me.

Cymbals crash like waves against rock—my doubt against the Father’s will—and I drop low, bending to it, letting my fingers brush the floor, allowing myself a moment shrouded in the darkness of my curled torso before I rise once again to my toes. Light streams through the windows, turning everything around me a vibrant gold.

And then it’s over. The music, the dance, my trip down memory lane. All of it. I drop into a bow, and the room erupts with applause.

When I rise I see the place clearly. The newly painted basketball court, the groupings of people here and there, standing, clapping, toasting me with plastic cups of red punch. Dad swipes at his eyes with gigantic paws, his ruddy face flushed. Jake stands near the back, whistling, cheering, a tiny orange tutu over his jeans.

I snort.

Where did he get that?

Hilarity joins exhilaration, and I laugh. And laugh.

Kaylee, friend extraordinaire, skips up the stairs and wraps her arms around me.

“You were amazing,” she says. “I can’t believe you almost gave that up!” She stumbles toward the microphone at the front of the stage, pulling me with her. “Wasn’t she fabulous?” she asks the audience. The crowd claps harder, and I smile as the tears fall.

The gathering here is humble—just my friends and neighbors—and the Stratus Community Center is not nearly so grand as the theatres I toured last summer.

But I did it. Really and truly.

It’s impossible not to think of Ali now. Not to remember her childlike laugh or the way she pushed and pulled me, made me believe I could conquer the world.

She’d be proud of me.

The tears are thick now, drenching my face, running down my leotard, so I wave my thanks to the crowd and duck into the wings. Miss Macy grabs me before I get too far. She pulls me into her arms and presses her cheek against mine. She’s crying too.

“You are grace personified, sweetness. I know that wasn’t easy, but . . .” Her voice catches and she pushes me away. “Oh, go. Kiss that boyfriend of yours and get back