Fallen (9 page)

The water seemed to help, restoring color to her face, and she had bought a granola bar and eaten it before getting in her car to head back. Gabriel had accepted her plea to postpone their trip to Bourbon Street until the following night, and he walked back to his apartment, feet comfortable on the uneven sidewalks. He had lived in the French Quarter for a hundred and fifty years, had never lived anywhere else on earth, and he appreciated its familiarity. He knew every crack, every building, every nuance, every odd local, and every change that occurred, however slight. Intentionally, he chose to cut down Bourbon, to pass the bars that were already gearing up for Friday night. To force himself to walk past signs that advertised beer as three for the price of one. Hand grenades. Mojitos. Jager bombs. To smell the unique odor of beer, bleach, and fried food.

It gave him a feeling of power, of control, an encouragement that he was still his own master, when he could stroll past temptation to drink every three feet and not succumb. In his human body it was easier to fall prey to weakness and sin, to struggle the way mortals did. It had been meant to serve as a source of understanding for him as he had watched and protected those around him, but it had only accelerated his fall. Illuminated his own flaws and stoked his craving for escape from the overwhelming reality of human pain and suffering.

Whenever Gabriel started down Bourbon Street, he always wondered what would happen if one day he could no longer traverse the hot coals, and picked up a drink. But so far he had always resisted, and he did again.

Only to arrive home and find Alex waiting just inside his courtyard gate, lounging in Gabriel’s wrought iron chair reading the newspaper.

The gate was still locked, of course. Alex was fond of the dramatic.

Gabriel sighed, not feeling up to dealing with Alex and his manipulations, but at the same time grateful Sara had gone home. He didn’t want Alex encountering her. “What are you doing here?”

Alex smiled, a charming smile full of straight white teeth. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“I wasn’t aware we were ever friends.” Gabriel walked straight past him, and headed for the stairs.

Following him, Alex said, “I think technically our relationship is more like that of brothers. We were angels once together. Now we’re demons. Grigori demon brothers.” Alex laughed. “I like that. It sounds like we’re a circus act. The Amazing Grigori Demon Brothers will dazzle you with their scintillating feats of sin.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes as he jogged up the stairs.

“Hey, you’re not laughing. That was funny. I’m funny.”

“Whatever.” He opened his front door and went in, dropping the camera on his end table. Ignoring Alex, he headed for the kitchen. Lunch was long gone, and he was hungry.

“Since you have no manners whatsoever, I’ll just invite myself in and make myself comfortable,” Alex called from the living room.

“I knew you would.” Gabriel couldn’t even bring himself to ask Alex why he was paying him a visit, even if he was curious. He didn’t want to show any interest at all, because Alex—like all the other Grigori demons—was not a man Gabriel wanted to spend time with. The Grigori demons were a reminder of what he had been, what he was, what he thought in his heart and soul he was better than, but time showed over and over he wasn’t.

As Gabriel pulled out a frozen burrito and tore off the wrapper, Alex said, “I’m looking for Marguerite. Have you seen her?”

Gabriel paused in shoving the burrito into the microwave and glanced back. He couldn’t see Alex, who was probably sitting on the couch. “I haven’t seen Marguerite in years.” Didn’t want to. Marguerite had betrayed him during his trial and he trusted her even less than the rest of the Grigori.

“No? I hadn’t realized that. But if you do see her, please let me know. I need to speak to her about something and she’s been gone for months, and I can’t seem to find her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. At least not by you.” When the bell dinged, Gabriel removed the burrito from the microwave and dropped it on a paper towel.

Alex sounded offended. “I’m her father. We have a good relationship.”

Gabriel didn’t know what constituted a quality relationship between a demon and his half-demon daughter, but Alex and Marguerite did seem to get along. But it had nothing to do with him. “I’ll let her know if I see her, but I can’t imagine I will.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

“No.” That was intentional. Gabriel walked into the living room, taking a bite out of his snack, and found Alex sitting on the couch looking at his camera.

“Who’s the blonde?” Alex turned the camera around and Gabriel saw Sara on the viewing screen, standing on the street, in profile.

Damn. The idea that Alex would even know of Sara’s existence made him uncomfortable. Striving to sound casual, not wanting to alert Alex in any way, he just shrugged. “Just a girl who does some research for me.”

“She could be hot if she didn’t look like she’s just come off a three-day bender only to find out her cat died.” Alex made a face at Sara’s image, his lip curling up. “You could do better than this if you’re looking for a little fun.”

Gabriel didn’t agree with Alex’s assessment of Sara at all, but that wasn’t the point. “I’m not looking for fun. It’s a business relationship.” Not that he wouldn’t like to explore other, more intimate possibilities, but it couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t allow it to happen.

Alex set down the camera and gave him a wry look. “I don’t doubt it. You’re not exactly known for being a fun guy. What I have never been able to figure out is why you don’t just embrace what you are. You’re fallen. You’re a demon. Live it up a little, Gabe. Enjoy it.”

Yet Gabriel still had a conscience, where Alex had none. Or at least Alex could rationalize his way through anything. “Your concern is touching, but I’m fine.”

“What you are is in a purgatory of your own making. You don’t seek redemption, but you don’t embrace sin either.” Alex stood up, frowning at him. “It’s like you have no purpose—you exist just to exist.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Take care. I’ll see you around.”

And he was gone, leaving Gabriel with a half-chewed bite of burrito in his mouth and the knowledge that Alex was right. Until he knew if he had killed Anne or not, he could never move on.

To what he didn’t know, but that was a step for another day. First he had to get to the truth before the doubt consumed him and the loneliness eventually drove him back to the comfort of the bottle.

Sara was struggling to stay awake, knowing it would be a disaster to take a nap at five in the afternoon when she was already having trouble sleeping at night. She paced back and forth in her apartment, hating the dingy gray carpet, the purple and gray tweed sofa. It was cheap furniture, but that wasn’t what bothered her—she didn’t need labels or expensive fabrics. What she didn’t like was that it had no character. Nothing in the room reflected her—her likes, dislikes, interests. She loved houseplants and artwork, soft, aging quilts, and flatscreen TVs with TiVo so she could watch all the reality shows she couldn’t get enough of.

It had only been two days, and she was already realizing that she was no transient. It wasn’t her personality. She needed her possessions, her life, surrounding her with familiarity and a sense of comfort, of sturdiness. But her life was all boxed up in a storage unit in Naples.

When the phone rang, she dove for it, grateful for the distraction from her sleepiness. She was afraid if she sat down, she’d be out for the count, and then all possibility of actual REM that night would disappear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Sara Michaels?”

“Yes.” Wishing she had checked the number on the screen, Sara answered cautiously.

“This is Robert Blackman with the
Naples Daily News
, and I wanted to speak to you about Dr. Marino’s acquittal.”

Shit. Sara sighed. “No comment.”

“Is it true you’ve moved to New Orleans?”

“Who told you that?” she asked, shocked. It sent shivers up her spine to realize they were watching her, tracking her in essence. Then in an attempt at recovery, hoping he would drop the issue, she added, “No, it’s not true.”

“No? But I know you’ve sold your condo and your mother’s house and quit your job. So when Dr. Marino moves to the West Coast, you’ll be going with him then?”

A shudder of disgust rolled over Sara. “No.” She hung up, shaking. It wasn’t over. It had followed her.

But she had known that all along. She could run, but she couldn’t hide.

And the whole truth she had been trying so damn hard to accept and act on was that it was time to turn and face it.

Conquer it.

She picked up the phone with shaking fingers and dialed Gabriel.

“Hi, it’s Sara.”

Gabriel sounded surprised, but maybe, she hoped, pleasantly so. “Hi. How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” Sort of. Sara took a deep breath. “Is the invitation to hit Bourbon Street still open? I think it could be fun after all.”

If she had been worried about his reaction, he gave her a good one. He was definitely surprised. Definitely pleased. He answered without hesitation. “Of course it’s still open. And maybe we can grab some dinner first. The street doesn’t get really interesting until after ten.”

“Great. I’ll be over in about an hour.” Just enough time to get ready. The idea of a drink on Bourbon Street suddenly held a hell of a lot of appeal.

October 9, 1849

Interview with Mr. Thiroux, conducted by William Davidson

Mr. Thiroux willingly agreed to questioning, and refused the right to contact his attorney. Interview was conducted in his suite on Royal Street, at the corner of Orleans. Mr. Thiroux expressed what appeared to me to be sincere remorse and regret over the death of Miss Donovan, and indicated he would be paying for her burial, as there is no family to take care of arrangements and expenses.

When asked to explain what happened on the night in question, Mr. Thiroux gave this account:

“I had several glasses of absinthe and smoked a small amount of opium. I fell asleep shortly after arriving at eight p.m. When I awoke it was dark and I thought Anne was sleeping, since I could see she was on the bed, her arm lying by her side. I decided to sketch her and began to do so, after a few moments moving closer to see the expression on her face. I slipped in her blood on the floor and, glancing up, saw what had been done to her. She was obviously dead, horrifically so, so I went for Madame Conti. First though, I disgraced myself by vomiting on the floor, so shocked I was by the sight before me of what had been done to a woman I cared a great deal for.”

If no one else entered the house, if there was no struggle or resistance from Miss Donovan, which witnesses verify, the sad conclusion I must draw is that Mr. Thiroux, under the influence of inebriants, entered into a violent rage and murdered his lover, with no premeditation, or memory of the incident. It is a horrific testament to the rage drink can bring out in a man, and Miss Donovan paid the ultimate price of liquor.

October 10, 1849—The police in three days have gone from being prepared to dismiss the murder of Miss Donovan as unsolvable, to having Mr. John Thiroux virtually TRIED and CONVICTED of the crime even prior to his arrest. No attempts have been made to investigate alternative suspects, and official police reports read by this reporter indicate sights are firmly set on the prosecution of the artist, philanthropist, and quiet scholar.

Temperance advocates, gather your arguments, as this case will prove to be a testing ground for the tolerance of the citizens of New Orleans to excessive drinking and pharmaceutical use. Choose your side and line up accordingly, as the impact on our local businesses, residences, and the very tenor of our city could be drastically altered by conclusions drawn regarding the crime of murder and its correlation to alcohol consumption.

“So just like that, they arrested John Thiroux?” Sara asked Gabriel, seated across the table from her at Brennan’s restaurant on Royal Street. “With no evidence?” She ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass and turned the facts around in her head. It was interesting to sit and talk through the case logically, detached, removed by more than a century from the grim reality. For the first time, she could see the appeal of what Gabriel did for a living. Playing Hercule Poirot, but with no one to let down if you couldn’t actually reach any conclusions. Much easier than thinking about her mom.

The sudden change of tenor in the original Anne Donovan investigation struck her as odd. Was Thiroux’s arrest really media driven? The police were afraid of negative press? It seemed too broad a leap to make so early in her reading and research, but there had been a clear shift in the four days from murder to arrest.

“Well, there was evidence. He was in the room, he had blood on his hands. No one heard a struggle. No sign of any forced entry. Circumstantially, it would appear that John Thiroux was the logical suspect. As for motive, well, that’s dicier, but he certainly had the opportunity.” Gabriel spread a thick glob of butter on a piece of crusty French bread and bit it.

He’d already had three equally burdened slices and Sara was eyeing the butter with longing. It wasn’t fair that Gabriel was tall and lean, yet he could eat half a stick of butter without batting an eye or seeming to gain a pound. If she ate that, she would sprout love handles spontaneously by the time the check for dinner arrived.

“If you think about it, under the exact same circumstances today, they would definitely take the person present at the scene in for questioning. You have to admit, he looks guilty.” Gabriel bit the second half of the slice of bread, finishing it off.

“But you don’t think he is, do you?” Otherwise she didn’t think he would be investigating and writing about the case.