Fallen (40 page)

Raphael had done it after all. The fucking bastard. Gabriel took deep breaths, trying to control the swell of anger, the disgust, the recrimination.

Sara shook her head, face pale, eyes wide. “Oh no . . . you’re not saying . . .”

Nodding his head once, he said quietly, “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

The pain, the betrayal in her voice sliced through his heart. “I don’t know, babe, I just don’t know.” Gabriel wanted to soften the blow, wanted to take her suffering away, wanted to make everything okay for Sara forever and always, but he couldn’t do that. Sara surprised him though. She reached out, touched his arm briefly, and nodded.

“I know you don’t know. It was a rhetorical question, really. I’m sure we’ll never know, or understand, and that’s okay. Well, not exactly okay, but we’ll deal with it.”

Gabriel was impressed all over again. Sara had been dealt a bad hand most of her life, and yet she was an amazing, strong, and giving woman, and he loved her all the more for it.

“I still have that will.” He had shoved it in his back pocket, then tossed it in the backseat of his car. “It’s in my car.”

She followed him as he jogged down the steps, two at a time. He should have known not to trust Raphael, should have known that a killer was capable of lying.

He yanked open the back door to his car and found the papers on the floor. What he saw made his heart nearly stop. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“He told me this was his will . . . It’s not his, it’s yours.” It had Sara’s name on the top, and it glared up at him, taunting and macabre.

“What?” She tried to yank it away from him, but he held on to it. “Gabriel . . . I didn’t make this will.”

“I know.” And he was going to kill Raphael for being sick enough to do such a thing.

“So what do we do now?” she asked, still gripping the neck of the absinthe bottle, her eyes wide.

He was going to track down Raphael, but he didn’t want to scare her. “First I want to go to Anne’s tomb. I don’t remember that writing being there, yet it showed in the picture. Which means there’s no doubt that Raphael wrote it. Only a demon could pull that trick. You don’t have to go with me. I’ll be fast. I just need to see for myself.”

He wanted absolute confirmation of the truth, wanted to know that for a hundred and fifty years the answer had never had anything to do with him. He wanted to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Raphael had killed Anne and Jessie and all those other women. Then he was going to find the bastard and figure out why. And punish him.

“No, I’ll go with you.” She took his hand. “We’re in this together. We’re together.”

Yes, they were. He crumpled up the papers into a ball and nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Sara followed Gabriel into the cemetery in the dark, realizing suddenly why it was so easy for him to break a lock and gain entrance. He had strength, powers she didn’t understand. She also now knew that he didn’t have to fear mortals the way she did, that he could protect himself, and her, from common criminals like muggers. It was reassuring at the same time it was unnerving. She didn’t, couldn’t, comprehend the full scope of who and what he was.

“Walk next to me,” he said, slowing down and gesturing for her to fall in beside him. “I don’t sense anything, but I want you close to me.”

No complaints from her. She wasn’t afraid, but she wasn’t entirely comfortable either. The cemetery was quiet, the tombs rising stark and cold against the darkness, the crunch of the shells beneath her feet loud and obvious.

She was sure that if the writing had been on Anne’s tomb that day they had visited, when Gabriel had taken the shots, they would have noticed it. In her mind, she could picture the day perfectly, the tomb crisp and clean, bright white, freshly painted, the heat crushing her as she leaned on the fleur-de-lis fence, staring at the blank spot where the nameplate had fallen off. She would have noticed graffiti.

Gabriel had a flashlight, and when they stopped at Anne’s tomb, he shone it all over the front surface. Sara didn’t see anything at all. No writing.

There was no explanation why, but it was obvious that Rafe, who she needed to think of as Raphael, had been involved in the murders, involved with Marguerite far beyond what Sara had understood. It made her angry, because enough was enough, damn it. She didn’t want to feel the sorrow, didn’t want to suffocate yet again under its crushing hopelessness, didn’t want to feel the sting of betrayal. But she surprised herself. The wash of pain when she had discovered the truth had been short and shallow, and as she stood staring into the darkness, at the tomb of a woman who had lost her life to the violence and insanity of a demon, Sara felt intact, whole, safe, strong.

Nothing could destroy her.

Suddenly Gabriel was in front of her, pushing her, his hand over her mouth. In the dark, she couldn’t see his face, just his outline and the beam of the flashlight bouncing around the ground as his hand moved erratically, pushing her up against the fence. Then before she could process, focus in the dark, gain her balance, he had her completely around the side of the tomb.

“Stay still,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t move until I come back for you. I don’t want you getting lost in the cemetery.”

She wanted to ask what the hell was the matter with him, but his hand was so tight over her mouth, she couldn’t speak. So she closed her eyes and concentrated on projecting the words into his head. She had no idea if it worked like that, or if only he could enter her mind, but it was worth a shot. It was dark and she didn’t hear anything other than the sound of their breathing, and she hated not knowing what was going on.

Then she heard Gabriel whispering in her head, like he had before.
He’s here,
he said.
Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.

Cool air rushed over her as he disappeared, leaving her feeling bereft without his presence, missing the warmth of his hard body against hers, his towering masculinity hovering over her. Peering around the corner of the tomb, Sara wiped her hands on her jeans and tried to see in the dark. She could see Gabriel’s back and the light from the flashlight cutting through the inky blackness, shining straight down the walkway and hitting Raphael in the face.

Even in the dark and from ten feet away, his expression made her shiver. That didn’t look anything like the man she had known. This man was cruel, amused, manic, flat-out crazy.

“Have you figured it out?” he asked, his voice excited, hands in his pockets.

“That you killed Anne and Jessie?” Gabriel asked, holding the flashlight steady on Raphael’s face. “Yes. Or did you make Marguerite do your dirty work for you?”

“Oh, we did it together. Marguerite finds it sexually exciting, which is crude, but there it is.”

Sara clung to the side of the tomb, heart racing, eyes straining to see in the dark, knowing that Gabriel was pointing the beam on Raphael for her benefit, for her protection. She felt a little sick to her stomach and she wondered if she really wanted to hear everything Raphael might say. Up until an hour earlier, she had thought of him as Rafe, her mother’s devoted boyfriend. Even knowing he was immortal, a fallen angel, hadn’t altered the essence of her opinion of him. She had thought he was a nice guy. Now he was standing there and blithely saying that his real girlfriend found it exciting to slice women to pieces with him.

She felt a disgust, a hatred so profound that it overwhelmed her, kept her frozen to the wall she was leaning against, unable to look away.

Gabriel’s beam shifted to the left, and suddenly Sara realized Marguerite was standing there, beside Raphael. “Hello, Marguerite,” Gabriel said, his voice deceptively calm, but with a tightness Sara knew revealed his controlled anger. “It’s been awhile.”

“Hi, Gabriel,” Marguerite replied, with a sly smile and a wave. “I just want you to know it wasn’t anything personal with you—you know, Anne, and the trial. I did it for Raphael, that’s all.”

“Feeling guilty?” Gabriel asked.

Marguerite blinked. “No, not really. Of course not. Why would I?”

“Aren’t you going to ask why I did it?” Raphael asked, stepping in front of Marguerite and shoving her behind him so that she stumbled. She gave a cry of protest, but he silenced her with a look.

It was a look that sent chills down Sara’s spine. She didn’t know this man at all, had never seen that kind of patronizing dominance on his face, and it was disturbing, paralyzing.

“No, I’m not going to ask why,” Gabriel said. “You can’t possibly have any reason worth listening to.”

Sara didn’t want to hear it either. But obviously Raphael wanted to talk, because he spoke as if Gabriel had enthusiastically inquired.

“I know you’ll understand, Gabriel. I did it because these women were stuck here in this hell of mortality. Those women were whores and drunks and strippers, and I elevated them because they showed potential, a good heart. I took them out of this world, out of their frail, weak human bodies, and have kept them with me, in a better place. I’ve given them immortality, and doesn’t everyone want that? And I’ll admit it, I was angry. You were such a mess, a sloppy drunk, wandering around in an opium haze feeling sorry for mortals and yourself, and yet you managed to steal my mistress. It was a perversion, and poor pathetic Anne needed to be saved. It hasn’t been easy to do this, you know, to maintain the focus, to keep Marguerite in line, for all these years. But I couldn’t be selfish.”

Wondering if the ringing in her ears meant she was actually going to faint, Sara took deep breaths and struggled to stay standing, to not make a sound that would let them know she was there. Then again, maybe they were already fully aware of her. She had no real understanding of what demons could and couldn’t do. But she didn’t want to go down, no matter how sick and twisted and disgusting Raphael’s words were. She needed to hear the truth, wanted to take it in and let it go, wanted to show him and herself that she could stand strong.

“So you put them under a demon sleep so they wouldn’t be aware, wouldn’t fight back, and killed them?”

“Yes. And you have me to thank for getting you acquitted for Anne’s murder. I put my neck out for you.”

“Marguerite defamed my character.”

Marguerite spoke over Raphael’s shoulder. “That’s because I was worried they would pin something on Raphael. Sorry. If it was you or him that had to hang, I had to choose you.”

“Why the same family?” Gabriel asked Raphael.

Raphael smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up fully in the light of the flashlight. “Because it’s like the same woman over and over . . . I keep waiting, expecting improvement, and they always disappoint me. They’re all the same. I thought Jessie’s mother might be worth leaving here, but then I discovered she was hooked on pain meds. They’re all the same . . . such a shame. Again, I thought maybe Sara was different. But then came the sleeping pills, the absinthe, having sex with a man she hardly knows . . .”

And then Raphael turned right toward her. Even in the dark, Sara could feel the weight of his stare, the sting of his malice, and she knew he was speaking directly to her. Knew in that moment that it had been him in the window on Dauphine Street, him watching her from the strip club. She felt the same shock, the same skin-crawling invasion of privacy as he locked eyes with her. “Now it’s Sara’s turn.”

The sudden intensity of her fear crawled up her throat, choking her. His eyes were boring into her, his smile maniacal and amused, and he wanted to hurt her. Kill her. Slash her to bits with a big knife and enjoy it. Her first instinct was to run, but she knew that was a bad idea. The cemetery was dark, the paths were gravel, tombs rising in all directions, creating a maze that was easy to get lost in. And Raphael was immortal, with powers she didn’t understand.

She would have to stand her ground, because despite the unnerving feeling of Raphael’s eyes on her, she knew that Gabriel was between the two of them. He would protect her.

He already was.

With a speed that made an involuntary yelp leave her mouth, Gabriel was on Raphael in a dark blur. The flashlight hit the ground, plunging her into darkness, but she could hear the sounds of combat, fists landing, grunts of pain, heavy breathing. Then Gabriel must have shoved Raphael backward, because she saw him bounce off a tomb fence in the light from a street lamp. Raphael landed on the ground and rolled onto his side, swearing.

Sara, stay back,
she heard in that insidious whisper Gabriel used, that erotic and comforting display of connectedness. He was in her heart, he’d been in her body, now he was in her mind.

“Okay,” she said out loud, because it felt more natural to whisper the words than to think them. As soon as she spoke, she realized why he had urged her to stay away.

A beam of light shot forth from Gabriel, pinning a groaning Raphael on the ground.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she whispered, shocked and awed in spite of what she had already known. The white translucent light illuminated the entire pathway, leaving Gabriel through his fingertips in a straight line and smoldering as it hit Raphael. Marguerite was visible again in the vivid light, cowering away from Raphael on the ground, tucking herself into a one-sided fetal position, one arm and one leg stretched out toward Raphael. Sara squinted, wondering why Marguerite was leaning like that, and realized there were transparent shackles connecting Marguerite to Raphael. Her left leg and wrist were bound to his right.

That was probably the most disturbing thing Sara had seen yet, and she eased back, clinging to the tomb next to her, wanting more space between her and Raphael. More space between her and what she didn’t, couldn’t, understand.

Raphael writhed in pain under the assault of Gabriel’s light, but suddenly he shot straight up into the air vertically, Marguerite screaming and dangling below him, one of her sandals dropping off and hitting the fence of the tomb beneath them. She quickly righted herself and hovered next to Raphael, her arms crossed, head tucked in, shoulders slumped.