Free Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) by Shannon Dittemore

matters.
    She flies low, the sea churning beneath her. Blues of every shade sparkle in the light of the Celestial, illuminated by the Creator of all things. His glory bursts from within the waves and without, reflecting, bouncing off the water and bending across the sky in an enchanting show of color. Her dark skin grabs onto the light, pulling it with her in a dazzling shimmer across the Atlantic.
    In the distance she sees land. Sandy shores and tall leaning trees. Palms waving in the wind. She presses high into the sky and flies on. The coastal villages give way to expansive plains of undulating yellow grasses spotted by the occasional acacia. Migrating creatures, great and small, move in chunky swathes, crossing the Serengeti. Abruptly, the glory of the savannah vanishes, swallowed by a thick, emerald rainforest. Thunder shakes the sky, and a twisting river of deepest bronze cuts through it all, disappearing beneath the lush canopy of the Congo.
    And then she stops, her tiny wings skittering like a hummingbird’s, keeping her in place. Before her, emerging from the horizon, is the Army of Light. Not all of it, of course, but the host who travel always with Michael, their commander.
    Michael rides out front, his steed a blaze of red and gold. The Commander lifts his javelin, and in turn the flag bearers leading the troops raise their banners high. Three thousand angelic horses halt, their riders’ obedience instantaneous.
    A legion of angelic Warriors stare at the Cherub. From this distance there’s not much to distinguish her from the black enemy of darkness.
    Pearla moves forward cautiously, her eyes wide open on approach. She carries no weapon—her speed and her size are all the protection she needs. But it’s the white light of her eyes that will identify her as an ally. She knows the moment the Commander sees them. Knows the very second her features can be discerned. She knows it because Michael too becomes clearer in her sight. The creases around his eyes and mouth melt into the luminescence of his skin. His shoulders, armored in thick battle gear, relax and his spear comes down. He kicks lightly with his heels, pushing the faithful creature forward. The steed snorts and gallops ahead, his hooves lost in the atmosphere that birthed him.
    Humans rarely think of the spiritual realm as a physical thing, with streets and buildings and beings who can touch and be touched. But the Celestial is every bit as physical as the Terrestrial—if anything, its physicality is even more demanding than the realm they see.
    The skyscrapers and bridges of earth, her mountains and lakes—they do not cease to exist in the heavenly realm. It’s trueanything without a soul can be passed through, but to angelic fingers it can all be grasped, held on to, and thrown. The angelic mind works quickly, the decision to pass through a wall or to lean against it second nature. It’s subconscious, instinctual, like a chameleon changing colors. But even here, in the realm for which they were created, there are things they can’t do.
    The Cavalry, for instance, is gifted with a single set of wings. Rarely abandoning the deep trenches of battle, they have no need to cloak themselves or others. The sinewy inner wings held by the ranks of the Shield and the Herald are not necessary. Instead, they are armed with a pair of large arching wings that tower several feet above their heads. Strong, powerful wings to carry strong, powerful angels. But even formidable wings tire. So the Creator gifted his army with a race of noble steeds. They are an extension of the Warriors themselves—a band of horses born of light, emerging from it when needed and diving beneath the surface, like creatures of the deep, when their presence becomes unnecessary. Never has a warhorse known the minds and needs of its riders like these. Never far from their rider. Ever as near as the Warrior’s next breath of celestial air.
    Certain Michael has identified her, Pearla speeds