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

miracles.”
    Pearla knew such things occurred just after the death of Christ, but she’d not connected them to the work of the Sabres.
    Michael continues, “But it wasn’t to last long. As men stitched away at the temple’s curtain, repairing it, the Fallen unleashed their own forces, resealing the Terrestrial veil.”
    Pearla contains her surprise. “The Creator tore the veil and allowed the Prince’s minions to repair the damage?”
    “We all have a role to play, little one. Even darkness. The Father wasn’t done with humanity that day, and He allowed darkness to think they’d won. But not before giving them a glimpse of His power—of His earthshaking, life-giving power.”
    Michael spreads his wings wide, opens his mouth, and releases a song of war. The sound rushes through Pearla’s small body, and she clutches the steed’s mane more tightly. Beyond the Commander, three thousand Warriors raise their voices.
    “My forces cannot travel nearly as fast as you, and we’re sure to encounter opposition as we approach the Americas. So, go. I’d like to know more about our fallen brother and his plans for the gifted ones. We’ll rendezvous in the skies over Stratus.”
    Micheal’s word is law to Pearla, and she waits for no further instruction. Turning back the way she came, she flies west, the Commander and his forces falling farther and farther behind.

10

Brielle
    T he nightmare grabs hold before I realize I’ve fallen asleep. Jake’s hand is on my knee, he and Marco discussing cameras and video editing equipment. I’m thinking how great it is that they have things to talk about when a sea of color pulls me under.
    The colors pop and fade until all that’s left is a marble hallway stretched with a red Venetian rug. At the far end, pressed against the wall and shrouded in shadow, sits a girl. The shadow makes her appearance hard to discern, but I see wide, dark eyes above two trembling lips. It’s clear she’s not a child. Not exactly. Ten years old, eleven maybe.
    I hear footsteps making their way up the hall. From above I search for their source, but I’ve turned my head too quickly, and with a sickening sensation I’m tumbling, falling toward the girl.
    I blink. And blink again. Now I look out through her eyes, seeing what she sees. Feeling what she feels. And she’s afraid. Looking out through her eyes, I can tell they’re swollen, the tears chilling her face. A man walks toward her. A man I know. I’m sure I know him. I just . . . Who is he?
    I can’t place him here in another’s mind.
    “You’re safe,” he says.
    He’s handsome. Tall, lanky. Like a basketball player. His hair is light and it looks soft—even his mustache. But the girl is embarrassed. I feel the shame as if it were my own. Her shirt is burnt through; charred holes gape open, exposing her back and stomach. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares up at the man.
    “My mom’s dead, isn’t she?” The words strike a melancholy chord in my heart. I know what it’s like to be motherless, and if it’s true, I don’t envy this girl.
    The man crouches before her and takes her face in his long, thin hand. He moves his fingers lightly over her forehead and cheeks, brushing away the ash and dirt that remain. He’s gentle, and she needs gentle.
    “I believe she is, yes.” I feel the sob swelling in her stomach, expanding her ribs. “But you’re not,” he says, cupping her chin. “You were lucky.”
    She doesn’t want to cry in front of this man, but she can’t help it and the sob rips free. “She pulled me out. I can’t believe she pulled me out.”
    “Yes,” he says, his words silk. “And I’m so very glad. Your grandfather would never recover if he lost you both tonight.”
    Her eyes turn to the room at the end of the hall. The door is open a crack, tipping a sliver of light onto the Venetian rug. Whatever’s in that room scares her. Every second that door holds her attention, her fear grows, her legs