by Paula Weston
‘You did. Right where your scar is.’
I reach up under my hair. ‘Convenient.’
‘The only way we can be killed is decapitation, and the blow has to sever the mark. It makes perfect sense that someone wanting to kill you would try to take your head.’
I think of Jude. And his missing head. I can’t deal with that yet.
‘Nathaniel found all of them?’
Rafa glances out at the sky beyond the window. A lone cloud blots out the moon. ‘There are a hundred and eighty-two of us that we know of. A chance, maybe, that there are more half-angel bastards out there, keeping their heads down, doing their own thing. Nathaniel found the majority of us in those first few years and took care of—’
‘Hang on. What about their mothers?’
‘All died in childbirth.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yep.’ He swirls the water in his glass like it’s expensive whisky.
A log on the fire ignites. I watch the flames caress it until it’s completely engulfed.
‘What does it mean to be…like you?’
Rafa stretches his legs out. ‘We’re stronger and faster than humans. And we can shift. That’s how we got here. It’s one of the gifts we’ve inherited from our fathers—the ability to shift from one place to another in the blink of an eye.’
That’s impossible. Even if I have just changed time zones without boarding a plane.
‘And we’re immortal—unless we lose our heads, of course.’
I clutch my glass to my chest. He’s messing with me again. Right? ‘Shouldn’t you be old and wrinkled if you’re a hundred and thirty-nine?’
‘We all stayed whatever age we were the first time we shifted. For most of us, it was late teens. There are a couple of exceptions—’
‘Is that what you did after I got the crap kicked out of me last night? Shifted?’
‘When we shift, we can exchange energy. You were hurt. I helped you heal quicker. It’s why we usually travel in pairs.’
My fingers stray to my ribs. ‘Where did you take me?’
‘Here. Just for a second. The place wasn’t important, just that we shifted. Maggie was hammering on the door, so I didn’t have long.’
‘That’s why you were so wrecked this morning?’
He nods.
‘So why haven’t you shifted us before now if you’re so keen to get me out of Pan Beach?’
‘Force you to leave?’ He yawns. ‘That only works on humans. A Rephaite must consent—unless we’re unconscious or incapacitated. That’s why Taya ambushed you. You were with me, so she figured she’d have to knock you out before she could take you with them.’
‘Take me where?’
‘To the mothership.’
I pause. ‘What?’
He laughs. ‘God, this is too easy. To the Sanctuary. Rephaim HQ. It’s an old monastery in the Italian mountains. Not a spaceship.’
‘I knew that.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ He grins. ‘Your head hurt yet?’
‘Like it’s going to explode.’
He puts his glass down. ‘Let’s get some sleep. I’ll show you Jude’s room when the sun’s up.’
‘What about Mags? She’ll be worried.’
‘No, she won’t. You get snarky, you disappear. Don’t tell me she hasn’t seen that before.’
I straighten the blanket around my shoulders. That was just a good guess—he can’t know me that well.
‘Your turn for the fire.’ Rafa gestures towards the wood pile beside the hearth.
I use a log to flatten the coals and then toss it on. Sparks shower up the chimney. When I turn back to the couch, Rafa has stretched out, filling its entire length. He’s got one blanket around him and the other in front of him spread out. He pats it.
‘Don’t you have a bed?’
‘Sure, but the fire’s in here.’ He gives me that slow smile.
I take a breath. I am not making a fool of myself again.
He watches me wrestle with his offer. ‘I may have the hormones of an eighteen-year-old, but I can control myself. Unless you don’t want me to.’
‘What I want,’ I say, walking over to him, ‘is a night where you don’t harass me in my sleep.’ The best form of defence is attack, right?
I lie down on the couch and pull my blanket around me, careful not to touch him. Rafa has positioned a cushion as a pillow and I jerk it forward so there’s enough for me.
‘Doesn’t sound like me.’ His mouth is close to my ear. ‘I prefer my women awake when I harass them.’
‘No, smartarse, you keep showing up in my dreams. And not those sort of dreams either. The kind where you’re cutting the heads off hellions.’
He’s quiet for a few seconds. ‘Is that how you know about the Rhythm Palace? You dreamed it?’
‘Yep.’
‘That story, it’s like it was Jude’s version of what happened. We got there late and came in through the back door, just like you wrote, and we helped turn the tide in the fight. But you didn’t write it like he would have.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, for starters, he would have called them hellturds, not hellions. And, secondly, he wouldn’t have noticed my aftershave.’
I close my eyes. There’s just no way I can throw this guy off balance.
‘And that website—Dark Thoughts—how did you know it existed?’
‘I don’t know. I must have heard about it somewhere.’
He moves around behind me, getting comfortable. ‘I figured Jude must have told you about it. He’s the only person who knows I read that stuff.’
‘If you fight real demons, why would you want to read made-up stories about them?’
‘Some of it’s hilarious. And not all of it’s made up.’
I pull the blanket tighter around me. It’s the middle of the day at home, but I’m tired enough to sleep.
‘You still having those dreams?’
‘Not since you showed up at the bar.’
We’re quiet for a moment. And then: ‘Why did you call me Matt?’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that I know you, I realise I should have called that character Dick.’
He laughs, and the couch shakes. ‘Honestly, Gabe, I forgot you could be this much fun.’
FILL ME WITH EMPTINESS
Church bells wake me. Loud, clanging bells that sound like they’re inside my head. I don’t even have the brief luxury of disorientation. I know exactly where I am. Well, sort of.
Rafa’s arm is draped over me, his body pressed against mine. There’s no way he can be sleeping through this noise, but he’s giving no signs of being awake. Maybe he’s pretending to sleep so he can keep holding me. But that kind of thinking will only lead to me feeling stupid again. Rafa’s got his own game going on here. If I had more experience with men, I could work it against him. But no matter what he says, I’m only eighteen. And while I’ve come close, I’ve never actually been with a guy. Before the accident, there were plenty of close encounters, but afterwards, I didn’t want anyone to touch me. And then along comes Rafa…But if what he says is true, and I’m a hundred and thirty-nine years old, then clearly I’m not a virgin.
I’ve only been awake a few minutes and I’ve managed to tie my brain in a knot again.
The bells finally stop. Behind me, Rafa stirs and draws me closer.
‘Morning, Gabriella,’ he says, his voice still heavy with sleep.
‘Where are we?’
‘Same place we were a few hours ago.’ He nuzzles the back of my neck.
I push his arm away and sit up.
‘Hey.’ He grabs me. ‘Come back here and keep me warm.’
His grip is light, so I slap his hand away and stand up. The room might be musty, but it’s a vast improvement on Rafa’s shack in Pan Beach. The walls are white and clean, and the couch looks antique-expensive. No wonder it was so uncomfortable. Above the fireplace is a school of fish made from beaten cop
per, each stuck to the wall individually, and there’s an ornate silver plate propped up on the mantelpiece. The fire is down to a few flickering coals. I throw more wood on, and go to the window.
I stand there for a good five minutes, taking in the view. It’s a town of whitewashed buildings with flat roofs. Beyond the houses, the sea stretches out in all directions. Is that a cruise ship in the distance? I press my face against the cold glass. Down the road is a church with a white dome and arches hung with bells.
‘Worked it out yet?’ Rafa is behind me.
My breath fogs the window. ‘We’re in Greece somewhere, aren’t we?’
‘Patmos.’
I turn. He’s still got his blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his hair’s mussed and the first signs of stubble have appeared. For a second, I wish I was back lying next to him on the couch.
‘It was Jude’s idea to get a place here. He liked the irony.’
Patmos. The name is familiar. ‘The Apostle John was exiled here.’ Strange I can remember that, but not that I’m descended from fallen angels.
‘Back in the days before the place was crowded with tourists and cruise ships.’
I run my fingers through my hair. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a brush here somewhere?’
Rafa nods in the direction of the hallway. ‘Second door on the left is Jude’s room. There are a few things in there. Help yourself.’
The door is plain timber. It’s not latched. All I have to do is nudge it. On the other side is a room that supposedly belonged to Jude. A room I never knew existed—in a house my brother shared with a man I don’t remember. My stomach twists. I don’t know what’s unsettling me more: the idea I might discover something new about Jude, or the fear I won’t.
‘You need a hand there?’ Rafa asks, watching me from the window.
I ignore him and push open the door.
Inside, there’s a bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, all made from dark, heavy timber. Out the window is a hill dotted with olive trees. The bed has been stripped of its blanket, but the rest of the room is strangely neat. I pick up a pillow and inhale deeply. Is there a hint of Jude there, or is that just wishful thinking?
The bookcase is crammed with paperbacks and hardback books. I run my finger over the spines. Two whole shelves are dedicated to books about angels and demons. Volumes on Judaeo-Christian and Islamic theology, and a brightly illustrated tome on Hindu teachings. Essays on the concept of the human soul. I count ten bibles and six volumes of apocryphal writings. Copies of the Talmud and the Koran. In Hebrew and Arabic. I pull a few out and flip through them. One after the other is peppered with underlining and handwritten notes. Jude’s spidery scrawl.
There’s also a smattering of crime novels by various writers in English, Italian and German, and what might possibly be first editions of The Lord of the Rings. Cracked, leather-bound covers.
I open the wardrobe, expecting to find clothes. Instead, I find swords and knives. Dozens of deadly weapons of all shapes and sizes. The shelves have been removed and the weapons hang on hooks on the sides and back of the wardrobe. It’s a mass murderer’s tool shed. I close the doors and stand there for a few seconds, just breathing.
I go to the drawers, almost afraid to open them. I start with the bottom one. A few stray socks and a pair of combat boots. Of course the boots are in a drawer—it’s not like you’d put them in your weapons cupboard.
I open the second drawer: t-shirts and light-knit jumpers. I recognise a few of them from our backpacking days…or at least my memories of those days. Below that, jeans and trackpants, all folded with military precision.
Finally, I open the top drawer. Socks and underwear are neatly folded and lined up. Ordered. It doesn’t feel right. Jude was always tidy, but not like this. This seems disciplined.
I rummage through his things, not sure what I’m looking for. And then my fingers touch the edge of something under a pair of woollen socks. I pull it out, and it takes me several long moments to accept what I’m seeing.
It’s a photograph of Jude, smiling, with his arm slung over a young woman’s shoulder. She has long dark hair, hanging past her shoulders, and she’s laughing. They’re in Istanbul, in front of the Blue Mosque. They’re both wearing clothes that haven’t been in fashion for at least two decades. The photo itself has seen better days—it’s slightly discoloured, and folded at the edges. I feel like I’m being dragged through the air by Rafa again.
The woman in the photo is me.
I carry it over to the bed and sit down. I can’t take my eyes off that impossible image. It’s only when the tears come that it blurs out of focus.
It’s too much.
All of it.
More tears fall, and I don’t have the strength to stop them. I don’t care anymore. Jude is gone. And the brother I’m mourning is a lie. A memory someone else has given me. I have a whole other lifetime with him I don’t remember.
I ball my hand into a fist, pull the bed sheet free from its neat hospital corner. Grief wraps itself around me. I can barely draw breath. My throat burns and tears spatter onto the crisp linen. I sob and shudder, and make a low noise like a wounded animal.
After a while, a weight settles next to me on the bed. Rafa tilts the picture in my hand so he can see it, but he doesn’t try to take it from me.
‘I never said you didn’t go to Turkey with Jude. It just wasn’t recently.’
My face is hot and wet and my whole body aches. I stare up at him, empty. Lost.
‘Gabe…’ His voice catches.
I wait for him to lob another grenade but, for once, he’s got nothing to say. He scoops me up and carries me back out to the couch. He sits me across his lap, and draws me to his chest, dragging the blanket around my shoulders. His hand makes slow circles between my shoulderblades.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I didn’t think it would be like this.’
‘Did he hate me?’ It’s hard to form the words.
‘Of course he didn’t.’ Rafa’s voice is sharp. ‘You were both as stubborn as each other, that’s all. You were so pissed at him for leaving the Sanctuary, and he was so pissed at you because you wouldn’t listen to him.’ His hand comes to rest on the small of my back. ‘He grabbed that photo when we left the Sanctuary. It’s one of the few things that ever meant anything to him.’
I wipe my cheeks with my thumb. ‘Why do you care what happens to me? Is finding Semyaza that important?’
Rafa looks at me. All his usual attitude has fallen away. ‘I couldn’t give a shit about Semyaza anymore, or any of the Fallen. But Jude’s the one person I’ve been able to trust in the last century and I want to know what happened to him.’
I take a ragged breath, and he pauses to brush a stray hair out of my eyes.
‘And…?’ I ask.
His fingers linger on my face.
‘You shouldn’t be alive, Gabe, but you are.’ He swallows, and it seems to take an effort to get his next words out. ‘And I can’t help but wonder if you’re not the only one who survived.’
IN THE DARK, I OPEN MY EYES
I stare at him with sore eyes. ‘Is that possible?’
The idea is so huge, so shattering, I can hardly bear to think about it.
‘It makes as much sense as you being here,’ he says. Jude may be alive somewhere.
All this time I’ve been lounging around Pan Beach and Jude may be alive.
My breath comes quickly. Too quickly. Black spots explode in my vision.
‘Hey, hey,’ Rafa says. ‘Settle down. Take a deep breath.’
I do, and it catches half a dozen times on the way in. I let it out and take another. And another. Eventually my pulse settles.
‘The thought never crossed your mind?’ Rafa asks. He hasn’t let me go.
‘But what I saw? The way he died?’
‘A lie, like everything else you remember.’
What if there really was no accident? No screeching tyres
and hot metal. No crushed windscreen and shattered glass. No smell of blood and fuel. My mind is doing laps and I have to get moving so I can keep up. I get up— Rafa makes no attempt to pull me back—gently slide the photo into my pocket, and start to pace. It’s a short track I make back and forth, between the fireplace and the window.
‘If there’s even the faintest chance he’s alive, we have to look for him,’ I say.
‘I know.’
I stop in front of him. ‘You came looking for me because you thought I knew what happened.’
‘I still think you do. You just don’t remember.’
‘What do we do then?’ I’m ready to go anywhere with him, do anything. Everything I’ve tried to absorb in the last few hours is nothing compared to this possibility.
Rafa can’t hold my gaze. He’s looking at the rectangles of sunlight across the stone floor.
‘You have no idea, do you?’
‘I need to know what the two of you were doing. If we can figure that out, we’ll at least have a starting point.’
The buzzing in my chest fades. ‘I need that other life back.’
‘Agreed.’ Rafa looks up. ‘Of course, if you remember who you are, you’re just as likely to kneecap me and go off on your own.’
It’s so weird to hear him speak about this other person. This other me. ‘Am I different now?’
A half-smile. ‘Yeah, and it’s a big improvement.’
I chew my lip. He knows I want more, but he still takes his time.
‘You’re still you, trust me,’ he says, finally. ‘Just without the baggage.’ He pauses. ‘Make that different baggage. And with only two decades’ worth instead of a century and a half.’
‘But if my memory of Jude isn’t real, does that mean the way I feel about him isn’t either? Or how I think he feels about me?’ My lungs constrict. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.
Rafa rubs his jaw with the back of his fingers. ‘No. I think the feelings are real—it’s just the details that have been screwed with. You two have always been tight.’
‘Except for that decade or so where we didn’t talk?’