Angel Eyes Read online

  Advance Acclaim for Angel Eyes

  “Angel Eyes has everything I look for in a novel—gorgeous prose, a compelling heroine, humor, and an intriguing plot—and two things I dream of finding—permission for brokenness and the promise of hope.”

  —MYRA MCENTIRE,

  AUTHOR OF HOURGLASS

  “Angel Eyes is a fine debut. A touching and exciting romance with celestial implications.”

  —ANDREW KLAVAN, AWARD-WINNING

  AUTHOR OF CRAZY DANGEROUS

  “Stunning. A captivating read with all the intensity necessary to keep me turning pages well into the night.”

  —HEATHER BURCH, AUTHOR OF THE

  CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED HALFLINGS

  “Shannon Dittemore gives us a classic tale of good versus evil with an authentically contemporary feel – and the assurance that beautiful writing is back.”

  —NANCY RUE, AUTHOR

  OF THE REAL LIFE SERIES

  ANGEL

  EYES

  ANGEL

  EYES

  SHANNON DITTEMORE

  © 2012 by Shannon Dittemore

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the NEW KING JAMES VERSION. ©1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dittemore, Shannon.

  Angel eyes / Shannon Dittemore.

  p. cm. -- (Angel eyes ; 1)

  Summary: Just returned home to tiny Stratus, Oregon, after finding tragedy instead of success as a ballerina, eighteen-year-old Brielle discovers she has a destiny with new neighbor Jake--to join a battle in a realm that only angels, demons, and Brielle can perceive.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8635-2 (pbk.)

  [1. Supernatural--Fiction. 2. Angels--Fiction. 3. Demonology--Fiction. 4.

  High schools--Fiction. 5. Schools--Fiction. 6. Fate and fatalism--Fiction.] I.

  Title.

  PZ7.D6294Ang 2012

  [Fic]--dc23

  2012004556

  Printed in the United States of America

  12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Matt, who chose me

  And for Justus and Jazlyn, who had no choice in the matter

  “Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.”

  ELISHA, THE PROPHET

  Contents

  1. Brielle

  2. Brielle

  3. Damien

  4. Brielle

  5. Brielle

  6. Damien

  7. Brielle

  8. Canaan

  9. Damien

  10. Brielle

  11. Canaan

  12. Brielle

  13. Brielle

  14. Brielle

  15. Brielle

  16. Canaan

  17. Brielle

  18. Brielle

  19. Damien

  20. Brielle

  21. Canaan

  22. Brielle

  23. Brielle

  24. Brielle

  25. Damien

  26. Brielle

  27. Canaan

  28. Brielle

  29. Damien

  30. Brielle

  31. Canaan

  32. Damien

  33. Brielle

  34. Damien

  35. Canaan

  36. Brielle

  37. Brielle

  38. Canaan

  39. Brielle

  40. Canaan

  41. Brielle

  42. Brielle

  Afterword: Jake

  Reading Group Guide

  Acknowledgments

  Author to Author Interview

  About the Author

  Dothan, Israel—2500 years ago

  The boy trembles. Fear wraps him tight, rattling his callow frame.

  He sees an army arrived in the dead of night. He sees soldiers flooding the canyon floor, flanking them on every side. Cursing, spitting soldiers, here for his master. The boy sees horses fogging the morning air and chariots pulling men with bows. He sees spears with bronze tips and swords of iron glinting in the predawn light.

  And he imagines.

  He imagines his master hauled away in chains. He imagines his own blood glazing one of those swords. He imagines death.

  Fear does that to the imagination.

  “Master,” he asks, “what shall we do?”

  The prophet wrestles silently with a truth. He knows things the boy does not. Sees things the boy can’t see.

  He sees the enemy. Oh yes, he sees them. But he sees their forces surrounded. He sees an angelic army. Great winged men with swords of light and halos of gold. He sees them lining the mountains that hem together this canyon. He sees horses emerging from fiery skies and chariots with wheels of sunset cloud. He sees riders with bows drawn and arrows of flame fixed on their adversaries.

  And he knows. He knows they’re here to protect him. To protect the boy.

  Truth does that to the heart.

  And the prophet knows this: There’s no room here for fear. Only truth.

  The boy needs to know it. He needs to know there are things unseen, forces for good and for evil. He needs to know there are more fighting for them than for their enemies.

  Day breaks over the horizon, and the prophet lifts up his voice. With a cry to rival the snorting horses and the irreverent soldiers, he prays for his servant.

  “Lord, give him eyes that he might see.”

  And God answers the prophet. By the hand of an angel and a halo of gold, he answers him.

  And for the first time in his young life, the boy sees.

  1

  Brielle

  The knot in my throat is constant. An aching thing.

  Shallow breaths whisper around it, sting my chapped lips, and leave white smoke monsters in the air.

  It takes them nine seconds to disappear. Nine seconds for the phantoms I’ve created to dissolve into nothingness.

  How long till the one haunting my dreams does the same?

  The absence of an answer makes my hands shake, so I slide the lambskin gloves out of my book bag and put them on.

  If only it were that easy.

  Like glacial masses shoving along, ice travels my veins, chilling my skin and numbing my insides. Three weeks of this biting cold outstrips the severity of my nightmares, but I haven’t suffered enough and I know it.

  “Miss, isn’t this your stop?” The man’s voice skates atop the frozen air.

  I want to answer him, but the words don’t come. A single tear thaws, escapes the confines of my lashes, and races triumphantly down my cheek. It soaks into my knit scarf—an invisible trail marking its life.

  “Miss?” he tries again. “We’re here. We’ve reached Stratus.”

  My legs are stiff, refusing to stand. I just need a minute. I should say something at least—answer him—but the knot in my throat refuses to budge. I raise a gloved hand to wrestl
e it away.

  “I’m sorry, dear, but the conductor is impatient today. If you don’t exit the train, you’ll have to ride back to Portland with us.”

  I turn toward the aisle and look at the poor man. He’s sixty at least, with a tuft of gray hair and an oversized bow tie. The kind you only see in the movies. He, too, is wearing gloves, and it’s a small comfort to know I’m not the only one chilled. His face wrinkles into a million lines, and the corners of his mouth lift.

  “Of course, if you’d like to return with the train, you’re more than welcome. I could use the company.” He gestures to row after row of empty seats.

  “No,” I murmur, standing quickly. I cannot return with this train. Not now. Not to the place where it happened. “You’re right. This is my stop.” I gather my bags and sink deep into my parka before stepping onto the platform.

  Why is everything so cold?

  I wrap my scarf around my neck once more and think of Hank, a coworker of my dad’s, who climbs Mount Hood every year. He’s lost all the toes on his right foot to frostbite, and one year a companion fell on the south side of the peak and slid into a crevasse, sacrificed to the god of adrenaline. After losing so much, how can such a journey be worth it?

  The train pulls away from the station. It’s empty now, but I stare after the steel snake as the heaviness of good-bye squirms inside my chest, locked away in a cage of frozen bones and tissue. Will I ever thaw enough to say the word?

  The parking lot is small, but as I cross it I cast a flickering gaze at the man standing by a pickup. Six foot five and burly, my father waits with a stubborn smile as I trudge toward him. Don’t come, I’d said. I can take a taxi. I knew he’d be here anyway.

  The heavy load falls from my hands. It crunches into the frozen blacktop, and I lean against his truck, counting silently to fifty-eight before he says a word.

  “I know you didn’t want me to come, Brielle, but you’re not in the city anymore. There’s just the one cabbie. Didn’t want you standing here all night waiting for the guy.” He stretches his long lumberjack arms around my shoulders awkwardly. “Plus, I couldn’t wait to see you. It’s been too long.”

  He adds the last sentence very quietly, and I pretend not to hear it. The knot in my throat is a traitor, though, and explodes in a gush of air. The sobs that have bruised me from the inside out finally break free as my daddy wraps me in his arms and tucks me into his flannel coat.

  He lets me cry, his grip so tight I have to struggle out of it when I’m done. Still snuffling, I wipe my face on my sleeve and crawl into the truck. The scent of wood chips and spearmint gum tickles my nostrils, and I settle back, breathing it deep. Dad drops into his seat, and I have to brace my hand against the door to keep from sliding into him on the sloping bench-seat.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  The engine revs, and we leave the parking lot behind us. From the train station it’s just three miles to the house I grew up in. The distance flies by, leaving me feeling like an outsider. I can’t point out a single change, but it all feels foreign. The mixture of evergreen trees and cow pastures are a bizarre juxtaposition after the city’s skyscrapers and manicured parks.

  I don’t want to be back here, but the oak tree in our lawn comes into sight and the pain ebbs a bit. The house isn’t anything to get worked up over, though I’ve always been happy to call it home. Ranch-style, white with yellow trim, it sits nestled in a jumble of evergreens. Within, everything about the furnishings is supersized to fit my mountain of a father.

  We pull into the long gravel driveway, and I cringe at the ridiculous mailbox that’s been added in my absence.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I made it,” he says, proud of his handiwork. The mailbox is ghastly: a ten-gallon bucket, our last name scrawled across it, perched atop the old post. “Whatcha think?”

  “What happened to the old normal mailbox?”

  “I backed into it with the trailer.” He chuckles, and the elastic bands around my heart ease up just a millimeter.

  “Well, at least I know what to get you for Christmas.”

  Dad parks the truck, and a small sigh escapes my lips. I hadn’t planned on living here again, ever, and the sting of disappointment jabs at my gut: I did not finish what I set out to do. But I can’t go back. I can’t. I need this house, and I need my dad.

  “Who’s living in the old Miller place?” I ask, nodding at the only other house in sight—a farmhouse situated about a hundred yards to the east.

  He cranes his neck to look past me. “Don’t know. Somebody just moved in.”

  Several of the windows are alive with light. The truck rattles with the sound of a stereo, and my heart slows to the rhythm of the bass line. Like a metronome, it’s soothing, and I lean back against the headrest.

  “Ah, heck. I’ll go over there after dinner and tell ’em to turn it down.”

  “No. Don’t. Please.”

  His shoulders sag, and I realize he’ll do anything to make me comfortable tonight. We sit in the cab, the rattling truck and bass guitar filling the silence.

  “You know, kiddo, you don’t have to talk about it. You don’t. You don’t really need to do anything for a while.” He’s rehearsed this little speech, I can tell. “Just be, okay? Be here, and maybe one day you’ll see it really wasn’t your fault.”

  I choke a bit and look into his big teddy bear face. He can’t know. He’s my dad. He sees only what he wants to see. He’ll never understand that I could have stopped it. I look out the passenger-side window, over the dead grass and the brown leaves scattered on the ground. I look out at the coming winter and the setting sun and say all I plan on saying about it.

  “Ali was eighteen, Dad. My age. A little bit younger, really.” My body—my skin, even—feels so heavy with the icy weight of it all. “I could have stopped the whole thing. There’s no way around that, but you said it yourself. I don’t have to talk about it.”

  I turn to face my father. He needs to know how serious I am. This subject is off-limits. Until the trial—until I’m sitting on that witness stand—there isn’t another soul who needs to hear my story. I look Dad straight in the eye. Tears gather there, they run down his face and sparkle in his beard.

  “Okay. We just won’t talk about it,” he concedes. He kisses my nose. “Some guy named Pizza Hut made us dinner, so let’s get to it.”

  He climbs out and throws a hostile look at the old Miller place. Then he grabs my bags from the bed of the truck and stomps inside.

  “Pizza Hut, huh?”

  I follow him into the house. His boots leave muddy prints up the porch stairs and across the linoleum floor. I used to reprimand him for stuff like that, but not today. Today, I simply ghost by.

  Weaving around the mud splotches, I make my way through the kitchen and into my old room. It’s been vacant for two years, and still it looks the same. I pick at a loose thread on my jeans, uneasy at the lack of change. This ancient town is tightfisted with her diversions, and it’s quite possible I’ve had my share. The idea hurts. Like that dingy penny in the bottom of your pocket—the one that must be eighty years old. You scratch away the gummy muck and are horrified to find how new the coin is. Much newer than you ever would have guessed.

  How did I get so filthy, so damaged in just a few short years?

  I’d been given the chance of a lifetime, and now, two years later, my own inaction had ruined not only my dreams but the life of someone I’d loved. Broken dreams I can handle, but I’d give anything to go back and make things right for her.

  That isn’t possible, of course. Some things you have to do right the first time. If the past three weeks have taught me anything, it’s that.

  You don’t always get a second chance.

  The doorbell rings, mercifully pulling me from thoughts that can only lead to tears.

  “Brielle! Company.”

  An unnoticed, quiet transition back home was too grand a thing to hope for. I realize this only now as I r
eenter the kitchen, followed by several of my old friends. It’s a diverse group I’ve collected through the years: there’s the softball player, the cheerleader, my first lab partner, a girl I’ve known since Girl Scouts, and two dancers from Miss Macy’s studio on Main.

  I’m the outgoing one. The ballerina, the model.

  My place has always been the clubhouse. The home without a nagging mother. Without chores to do. Without pestering siblings. We’ve grown up together, all of us. Their mothers made me cookies and hemmed my dance costumes. Their fathers kept Dad company while I was away at summer camp. These girls and their families will always be the players on the stage of my childhood, and I can tell by their optimistic, chipper faces that they assume we can pick up where we left off.

  They’re wrong. Nothing will ever be the same.

  I try to smile and nod at the right times, but I’m cold and slow. Eventually their smiles fade. They ask a few questions about the train ride home, about my school in the city. No one approaches the tie-dyed elephant in the room, but their eyes avoid mine, and I know they’re scrutinizing the poor beast in any case. Mostly they fidget uncomfortably. After half an hour the entire huddle smiles politely, mutters garbled apologies, and leaves one after the other. Only Kaylee, my childhood sidekick, stays long enough to grab a slice of pizza and attempt to wring me from my melancholy.