Fallen (38 page)

She propped herself up on her elbow and stared down at him, frowning. “Look at me.”

“I am.”

“Tell me what you are.”

Gabriel brushed his fingers over the tips of her hair and swallowed. “I’m a demon.” It hurt to say that, but he had to own the truth.

She nodded. “Yes, I do need time to think. Go ahead and buy your ticket and head back tomorrow and I’ll call you in a few days.”

Only she wouldn’t. He knew it as surely as he knew he was fallen.

Her decision was already made whether she even knew it or not, and her future didn’t include him.

It was something he had to accept.

And he owed her a huge debt for showing him how to love again, for facing who he was and what he needed to do.

So he cupped her cheek with his hand and let her eyes lock with his, let her inside the remnants of his palace, let her see the color and shine and strength of his love.

Her eyes went wide and lost focus as she embraced his gift, and fell into a sleep that would be filled with dreams of everything that made her happy, where there was no murder, no suffering or pain or hatred.

Tomorrow she would wake up and start her life over again, and he would be gone.

Chapter Twenty-two

Walking hadn’t helped. Gabriel had paced down Dumaine to Chartres, across the square, down by the river, walking on and on trying to shake off his feelings, trying to exhaust his body and quiet his thoughts, but it hadn’t worked. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sara, couldn’t stop missing her, wanting her.

The past, his mistakes, were struggling to hold him, and he was fighting to forgive himself, to look ahead to a future that was no longer isolating and self-deprecating. Tired of the anxiety, of the restless wandering, Gabriel stepped into a bar on Conti Street and made his way to the back, where it was dark and quiet.

He ordered a whiskey without hesitation. He smelled it, breathing the sting and tang deeply into his nostrils. He stared at it in his hand, then he set it back on the bar. He watched the ice gradually melt into the amber liquid and he studied the signs on the dingy walls that advertised liquor and beer. He glanced at a waitress moving around the room collecting empties.

Gabriel was amazed at how much he hurt, how he ached and burned, how the thought of Sara made everything in him convulse and squeeze in agony.

But he also knew that if there were no pain, there would never have been pleasure.

That was what living with mortals had taught him. To appreciate the beautiful moments, the joy, the love, the now.

The bartender was wiping down the counter, her thick brown hair falling across her face. She tucked it behind her ear and Gabriel saw a scar on her cheek, running from the right ear to her chin, a jagged white line that was shiny and bright against the rich end-of-summer tan glowing on the rest of her face. She must have sensed his stare because she glanced up at him and smiled, even as her fingertips brushed her scar, like she was conscious of the fact that she had exposed it, that he might be looking at it.

“You going to drink that or just look at it? You’ve been here an hour and you haven’t even taken a sip.” She pulled her hair forward again, covering her imperfection.

He had no intention of drinking his whiskey. It was sitting there to remind him of who he had been and what he was now. To show him that he was a man, master of his own destiny, owner of his actions, and unworthy of pity. He had been granted gifts that he intended to use again.

“I’m here for the company, not the alcohol.”

Her brown eyes went wide. “Are you kidding? Here? Nobody’s good company here, sweetie.”

It was true the clientele was a bit tired and eccentric. Most of the people in the bar seemed to be propped up against the counter, with little conversation or interaction other than that with their glass.

“Do you have a pen and paper?” he asked.

“Here’s a pen.” She tossed one his way, then reached under the counter. “And here’s a paper bag. That’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks. That will work.” While she got someone a beer and emptied ashtrays, Gabriel sketched her, capturing the lushness of her lips, the thickness of her hair, the wide eyes and high cheekbones.

When he was done, he gestured to her.

“You want another one?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at his still-full glass. “Or how about a soft drink or something?”

“I just wanted to show you.” He pushed the bag over to her, wanting her to see her the way he did, as a work of art, a thing of beauty, a woman with a lovely smile, and a cheerful approach to a thankless job.

Her curious gaze turned to shock, then pleasure. “It’s me,” she said in wonder. “I think.”

“Of course it’s you.”

“You made me look . . . sort of pretty.” Her fingers touched the paper.

“That’s how I see you,” he told her.

Her mouth rounded into an O shape. “Wow. Thanks. Can I keep this?”

“Sure.” Gabriel lifted the glass of whiskey and drew in a deep breath, smelling its rich aroma again.

He set it back down. He didn’t need it. Didn’t crave it. Didn’t want it.

He was free.

Sara was alone again. Gabriel had left, which he’d had to do. Which she had told him to do, because it was necessary. She had encouraged him to leave without her.

He wasn’t human, wasn’t mortal, or a man in the sense of what she had always understood. He was from another world, with different rules, and he had to go back.

She knew that.

Yet she was conscious of the fact that she was alone yet again.

It seemed her path in life, no matter which way it weaved and turned, was to be walked in solitude.

Sara drove to her mother’s house and parked in front in the dark. There were lights on all over the house, and she could see two small girls running around in the family room since the blinds hadn’t been drawn. She had sold the house to a young couple who had needed the reasonable price for their growing family, and were willing to overlook the fact that someone had been murdered there. It was nice to see the hustle and bustle of a family moving around the rooms, a plastic play set in the backyard.

Getting out of the car, Sara stood in the dark, leaning against her door, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. She had grown up on this street, had a few fond memories, but was surprised to recognize, admit to herself for really the first time, that she hadn’t had a traditional childhood, that she’d seen too much too fast, and had spent far too much time alone, taking care of herself. She could forgive her mother for that now. But she didn’t feel any pangs of regret for selling the house either.

She was proud of herself for standing in the silence, for not letting fear of the shadows, potential dangers, force her back into her car. Tears trickled down her face, though she didn’t cry for her mother, but finally, for the first time, she cried for herself. For Gabriel. For what they had both endured. For their mistakes. For the future together that seemed daunting and insurmountable.

For a person who liked definites, the logic of science, the hardest lesson Sara had to learn over and over was that there were no answers. No such thing as black and white. She needed to trust herself to understand what was right for her.

Gabriel was Gabriel, demon or fallen angel or whatever it was he really should be called. He was still just Gabriel, the man she had fallen in love with.

On impulse she pulled out her cell phone and sent him a text message.
Are you the Gabriel who came to Mary?
It was a weird question, but one that had been gnawing at her. She didn’t know what she believed exactly, or why it mattered, but she needed to know what he would say.

Her phone chimed two minutes later. He had replied already.
No. I was a lesser angel.

Relief seemed a strange emotion, but it was there, intense and immediate. That would have been too much, too difficult to accept, too unnatural to think of what she felt for him in such an extreme context. Manners dictated she answer, so she just typed,
Thanks,
and left it at that. He wouldn’t question her or respond back. She knew that about him. He would let her have the time and space she needed, and she appreciated that.

The scene in front of her tantalized, beckoned her. The lure of hearth and home and children. If she went to Gabriel, she would never have a family, never have babies to raise.

But who was to say she would if she didn’t go to him? Who was to say that she would ever find a man she loved enough to share her life with, children with?

No answers.

Except she did know that she wasn’t afraid of being alone anymore.

She wasn’t afraid of anything.

Chapter Twenty-three

When a murder occurs and a suspect is in custody, media attention quickly shifts to the accused. What kind of person are they? Why did they do it? Most people are incapable of understanding what motivates a criminal, yet that is always our focus. We want details, explanations, answers. They don’t exist. They kill because they are murderers. It isn’t our responsibility to evaluate individuals or their motivations, but to ensure that they are punished for their crimes, and that the focus remains on the victims.

I have tried to do that in the cases of Anne Donovan and Jessie Michaels, but ultimately, their deaths are overshadowed by the investigations that failed to guarantee justice for these women.

The dead speak, but the living are louder.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jocelyn eyeballed her with a great deal of doubt as they stood on the curb at the airport.

“I’m sure.” Well, not necessarily that it was a good idea, but Sara was sure she had to do it.

Jocelyn gave her a hug, bending at the knees so she could be at eye level from her nearly foot advantage over Sara. “Call me if you need anything. And don’t hesitate to bail if things get weird. You can stay with me as long as you need to.”

“Thanks, you know that means a lot to me.” Sara hugged her back. “But it’s going to be fine. Good.”

Grabbing her suitcase handle, she walked into the airport, giving Jocelyn a smile and a wave over her shoulder. It
was
fine, and all good. It felt right to be going back to New Orleans. Like returning home. It wasn’t logical since she had only lived there for a few weeks, and considering that sometimes the city had made her downright uncomfortable. It was eclectic and odd and intriguing and occasionally it had felt unsafe, but she missed it. Missed the smells, the rough sidewalk, the friendly smiles, the clip-clop of the horses rushing past with their carriages carrying tourists, the drip of water from freshly hosed balcony ferns.

She had fallen in love with New Orleans. And she had fallen in love in New Orleans. The pull of both was too strong to ignore.

It had been five weeks since Gabriel had left, and she hadn’t spoken to him other than the text message the day after he’d left. She hadn’t been able to pick up the phone and call. Being with Gabriel, understanding who and what he was, making love to him while he had struggled to hold back, keep his hands and mouth off of her, had been overwhelming, lovely and intense, heartbreaking. She had needed distance afterward.

Now she knew she didn’t want any space between them at all. She wanted to go back to him, on her terms, in control of her emotions, knowing she could get a job in New Orleans in a forensics lab, knowing that if her conversation with Gabriel went well, she could move her possessions, her life, to him and it wouldn’t be a sacrifice. They could make it work, despite their obvious obstacles.

It had taken four weeks to make her decision, but in the seven days since she had, she’d slept a solid six hours every night. She felt healthy, well rested, vibrant, full of energy and confidence.

She had even called her grandfather. He had been so pleased to hear from her, he had choked up on the phone, and Sara couldn’t wait to meet him in person. He had lost both his wife and his daughter, and she a mother. Together maybe they could forge a relationship, take comfort in getting to know each other. Healing past the hurt.

She wasn’t afraid to be alone, but she could choose not to be.

Sara was looking forward to seeing her kitten again too. She had missed Angel and had wanted to send for her, but somehow calling Gabriel and asking him to ship Angel to Florida had seemed like she would be saying something she didn’t really intend to. She hadn’t wanted him to think she was never coming back.

Yet why would he think anything else given that she hadn’t spoken to him in five weeks? She wasn’t sure. But he was the one who had left without saying good-bye. And she had understood why he had done that, and she was certain he would understand why she hadn’t called. They had never been demanding of each other, and that was part of what made her relationship with him so comfortable.

It was all good. She was going to talk to him, express the concerns she still had about the murders, ask him all her many questions about who and what he was, and make him an offer.

Hopefully it would be one he couldn’t refuse.

Gabriel lay on his living room floor staring at the ceiling. There was a vicious crack up there he’d never noticed. Interesting that he and the building, this apartment, had existed together in New Orleans through a hundred and fifty years. Through addiction, murder, hurricanes, they had survived, and they had both changed so very little. There was a defiance to them now, a stubbornness to stand stronger and sturdier in the face of such small expectations from the world, to be exactly as they pleased. Or maybe that was just him.

Or more likely still that he needed to stop working sixteen-hour days and roaming around the Quarter for hours on end. It wasn’t really all that normal to be lying on the floor, but it felt good. He felt good. He had just wanted to stretch out while he edited the first three chapters of his manuscript, so he had printed them out and read them above his head, enjoying the hardwood pressing into his spine, forcing his muscles to relax. Eventually he had stopped reading and had taken to just staring at the ceiling, just thinking.