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

her wings, meeting him halfway. He stows his javelin in the scabbard at his back and swings off his mount. His wings snap wide, catching a gust of light and wind. He moves them softly, keeping him in place. Slivers of wheat-colored hair jut from beneath his helmet, mingling with a downy beard cut close to his chin.
    “You are fast, little one.”
    “Not nearly as fast as I’d hoped. I thought to join you for the coronation.”
    “All went as planned. The malevolent Dominion of Ugandahas been uprooted, replaced by one of our own. We’ve left a small contingent behind, and the Shield are receiving orders now.”
    Testimonies like this are why she exists. Why she flies to and fro. Success on such an expansive level fills her with adoration.
    “Holy, holy,” Pearla begins. Her commander finishes with her: “Holy is the Lord of hosts.”
    “Indeed,” he says. Michael’s steed bumps his nose against Pearla’s small shoulder.
    “Hello, Loyal.” She reaches out a small hand and scratches his nose.
    “He’s missed you. But tell me, Cherub, how fares Abaddon?”
    “There’s movement, Commander.”
    “The Palatine?”
    “Yes. They make for the skies over Stratus, Oregon.”
    The wrinkles return to Michael’s brow. “Of the American Northwest?”
    “Yes.”
    “Reports have their general suffering the pit for his loss here. Whose command are they under now?”
    “General Maka.”
    Michael’s face and neck flash red and then fade quickly. “The assembly wasn’t just a diversion, then. If the dragon’s sent Maka, he sees Stratus as a threat. Did he allude—”
    “Yes, sir,” she interrupts. “One of the Fallen has made contact with a boy who heals.”
    This news doesn’t surprise the Commander as much as Pearla assumed it would.
    “He’s not the first.”
    “He’s not,” she agrees. “But according to the fallen one—Damien by name—the boy’s hands share the same grace as ours. Healing is given with a touch. With speed. With fire.”
    Michael smiles. Not only with his lips, but with his eyes and his arms. With the joy spreading his chest, hefting his breastplate. “In the Americas, then,” he says. “It’s about time.”
    “Then you’ve seen this before?”
    Michael’s hand runs the length of his steed’s back. “Many can heal, little one. The how and why is up to the King. What happened to the demon, this Damien?”
    “The boy’s Shield engaged him, and he was cast down.”
    Michael stretches his arms and legs, shaking them out, preparing to ride again.
    “There’s more, Commander.”
    “Go on.”
    “Damien claims the boy’s companion—a girl named Brielle—saw through the veil.”
    Michael’s mind laughs. Loud and strong. He leaps into the air, dropping onto Loyal’s back. “This is interesting.”
    “One more thing.”
    “Your trip was fruitful, it seems. Tell me, Pearla, what else do you know?”
    “The Prince has received word from an impish spy that the Sabres have been released—that they’ve been spotted in the skies above Stratus.”
    The Commander goes still—something he’s not known for.
    “If they are allowed to worship, if the veil is torn . . . ?” Pearla inquires, twisting her fingers into Loyal’s mane.
    “The Father has made provision for their worship, Pearla. And He’s torn the veil before. A handful of times. The very day our Lord was crucified, the Sabres destroyed not only the temple curtain but the Terrestrial veil over Jerusalem.”
    Pearla’s hands knot into tiny fists. She’d known about the curtain, but not the veil.
    “Why?”
    The Commander lifts high his spear, and the legion of light behind him engages, marching toward them. As they close in, Michael leans toward her, his white eyes sharp against the glowing red of Loyal’s mane. “Only He who created the veil can demand it be torn asunder, Cherub. There is only One, and His mind is His own.”
    “What happened? In Jerusalem?”
    “Tombs opened, dead men walked again, healings,