Raphael (The Immortal Youth Book 1)

by Monica La Porta

  Only wanting to check that the girl was okay, Raphael waited for Lina to announce him. A few hissed words later, Lina reemerged, and he was allowed behind the beige curtain where the girl lay huddled under the thin duvet, depressingly matching the color on the walls. Green hope covering red blood.

  “Only a few minutes, okay?” Lina patted him on his arm and left.

  Raphael shuffled closer to the footboard, one hand holding his messenger bag in place over his shoulder. “Hi.” Tilting his head to move his long bangs out of the way, he gave the girl a smile. “How do you feel today?”

  Emotionless, the girl stared at him, resembling a statue in her stillness.

  When he realized she had no intention to answer him, he stepped back and turned with a parting, “Okay.”

  “Wait.” Her voice reached him on the other side of the curtain.

  He pivoted on his heels and walked back to her bedside. “Let’s try this again.” With a wave of his free hand, he said, “Hi. How are you?”

  The girl shook her head. “Alive.” Tears shimmered in her blue eyes.

  “And you aren’t happy about it?”

  “No. I can’t say I am.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Her mouth opened, but she didn’t say anything. Shaking, she raised the duvet to her nose. The scars on her wrists were healing. Next full moon, they would be gone.

  “It gets better.”

  “Says who?”

  His right eye twitched, the harbinger of a migraine that would soon wreak havoc on his fatigued system. “Someone who thought more than once that dying was preferable to living.” He looked for a chair, but there was none.

  Frowning, she hid both hands under the blanket. “Why?”

  “Because the pain was too much.” He massaged his temples.

  She looked down and brought her knees up. “Then why didn’t you?”

  “Kill myself?” The green and the beige mixed as he swayed.

  She nodded.

  Too tired to stay on his feet anymore, Raphael patted the bed in a silent question. The girl shrugged, he took that as a yes and let himself down by the footboard. “Because I really hate to lose.” His back throbbed, as it often happened when he revisited his past. The RYS psychologist had explained to him the pain wasn’t due to any physical reason but triggered by his memories. The man had used a few acronyms, but the only one Raphael remembered was PTSD because he liked the post prefix; it gave him hope to think his problems were in the past. Too bad they wouldn’t let go of him.

  “Are you okay?” the girl tilted her head to the side, slightly relaxing her curled up position as she rocked her body.

  “Yes—” He swatted away a mosquito buzzing too close. “I’m fine.” Trying to soften the scowl he knew was on his face, he smiled and waved his hand in greeting again. “I’m Raphael.”

  “Carla.” She lowered her chin to her knees. “Why were you here this morning?”

  Lowering his shoulder, he let his bag fall to the floor, then leaned against the footboard. “It didn’t feel right to leave you alone last night.” His eyes went to the faded bruises on her jaw. “Plus, everyone around here is mortal, and you might have needed help to skedaddle before having to explain your miraculous healing.”

  As Carla listened to him, her facial expression changed from surprise to shock. “Wait. You stayed the whole night?”

  Looking for a more comfortable position, he hugged the bed frame with one arm and raised his black boot to the mattress. “Yes.”

  She gave the boot a raised brow and he straightened his leg. “I don’t understand. We never met before,” she said.

  With a shrug, he changed position yet again, then sat on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor, elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his united hands. “I thought you could use the help. That’s it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No biggie.”

  “I’m sorry I screamed at you.”

  “You must have had your reasons.” The overhead light was harsh, and he squinted at Carla.

  A long silence followed, then she sniffled once, tears followed and she was soon crying. “I was given to two boys—” Her chest shook with uncontrollable sobs and she brought both hands to her eyes. “They… they—” Words ran together until her speech became unintelligible. Clutching her stomach, she finally said, “I’m only alive because one of the two came back to check on me, and when he saw all the blood, he panicked. I remember him staunching the cuts I made on my wrists with his shirt. Then he scooped me up and drove me here.” Despite the tears, by the end her voice had become calm and much colder. “I hate them for what they did to me.” She raised her eyes to his. “And I hate him for not letting me die.” Then as if she had spent the last sparkle of energy left in her, she collapsed to the bed and cradled herself into a fetal position, her eyes closed.

  Raphael scooted closer to her and lowered his hand toward her head, but let it hover, worried the gesture would upset her. She surprised him though, sitting up and seeking the comfort of his arms. He had no words for her. Nothing he would say could lessen her suffering, but he embraced her closer and gave her a shoulder to cry on. Later, when her sobs lessened and her breathing evened, he released her to the bed and rearranged her pillow, then tucked her in.

  “Try to get some sleep. I’ll come back tomorrow.” He scooped his bag from the floor and pushed himself up.

  Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Bye, kid,” one of the male nurses greeted Raphael on his way out of the infirmary.

  The clock on the wall wasn’t working, but one glance at the cell phone, Quintilius’s gift, confirmed he had missed his ride. It was past midnight, and the next bus to Vescovio Place—where the alpha owned the building complex Raphael lived in—wouldn’t be by for another hour. The idea of waiting out in the street didn’t sound appealing to him, so he dragged his feet back into the infirmary where he huddled on a stretcher.

  Loud cries woke Raphael in the middle of a nightmare starring his father. A bleeding boy was being carried in by a nun who yelled as loud as her charge.

  The male nurse and the same doctor from the night before rushed to help the nun. The nurse took the kid from the woman’s arms as the doctor fired question after question. Raphael watched the scene unfold from his corner, but sprung up as the doctor called for him.

  “We’ve a full house tonight. Can you check on the kid on the gurney over there?” The doctor pointed at the opposite side of the room. “See if he needs anything.”

  “Sure.” Mind still numb from sleep, Raphael reached the kid. “You okay?” He passed one hand through his hair, then yawned.

  A scrawny, little thing, the street urchin—a gypsy from his colorful clothes—looked up, pain etched on his face, and shook his head. “I’m fine.” Maybe ten years old, the boy’s eyes were red from crying and now dry.

  Remembering he had, at some point in the night, pocketed the rubber band he used to tie his hair, he fished for it, but only found a quarter and a candy wrapper. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  The boy sat and hugged himself, as if cold. “Can you stay with me?”

  Nodding, Raphael anchored his boot on the wooden stool by the bed and moved it closer. “Do you like stories?”

  A small smile graced the boy’s lips. “What kind of stories?”

  “What stories do you like?” Raphael sat on the stool, his elbows on the bed.

  The boy perked up. “Dragons.”

  “I love dragons.” Raphael swung the satchel to the front and retrieved his sketchbook and a pencil. In minutes, his tale was accompanied by winged creations flying all over the pages.

  In between tales, the boy, Marek, confessed he had run away from his camp because his older brother was mean to him, but he missed his mum and da and wanted to go back. He had ended up at the Mattatoio infirmary after a close encounter with a speeding car. Fortunately, Marek was agile and had escaped from the a
ccident with just a bruise or two.

  Two hours later, Raphael put down the pencil at the sound of soft snoring. “And they lived happily ever after.”

  “You are a natural.” Looking down at the sleeping boy, the doctor gave Raphael a pat on the shoulder.

  Taken by the narration, Raphael had shut down his senses and hadn’t heard the man approaching. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “We alerted all the nomad camps in Rome and already talked to his father. He’s on his way to pick him up.” The doctor smiled at Raphael.

  “Good.” Pressing his hands on the bed, Raphael pushed himself up. He felt lightheaded and fell back on the stool with a thud.

  “Easy.” The doctor raised one finger to signal he should stay put and briskly walked to the kitchenette. A moment later, he strolled back with a fuming cup of espresso. Judging from the size of the mug, the doctor had filled it with a double or triple.

  “Thanks.” Raphael accepted the coffee and the three sachets of sugars the doctor produced from one of the pockets in his scrubs.

  The doctor waited for him to drink the beverage, then said, “You’ve done enough. Go get some sleep.”

  Several nurses turned to thank Raphael as he exited the infirmary for the second time that night—now early morning. The cold air outside kept him awake when he would have otherwise laid his tired body on the bench at the bus stop and slept. The empty bus arrived twenty minutes later, at three in the morning. By the time he reached his studio, it was too late to sleep and too early to take another bus and go to the office. Opting for a cup of strong espresso and a scorching hot shower, he made himself presentable for Iris.

  Despite Raphael’s efforts to greet Iris at the door when she arrived to open the office, the secretary still complained about his groggy demeanor. His day didn’t improve when Quintilius showed up later in the afternoon, and Iris pointed out Raphael hadn’t finished his morning tasks.

  Passing by the hallway, Quintilius paused at Raphael’s office, and called him from the open door. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Hands folded over his chest and jaw clenched, Raphael tried to relax his stance. His wolf was restless, and Raphael worried he would challenge the alpha. Close to full moon, only two days before the monthly shift, his wolf was already acting out, demanding to run.

  “You look like crap.” Quintilius entered the room and advanced toward Raphael’s desk. “Another sleepless night?” His intent eyes roamed over Raphael.

  “No, sir.” He unfolded his arms and placed his hands palm down on the smooth surface of the table.

  The alpha frowned. For a moment, Raphael worried the man could see through his lie, but then Quintilius asked, “Are you okay?”

  Confused by the question, Raphael was tempted to confide in him, but he saw Iris spying on them from her desk. She had it conveniently angled so she could see inside his office that was to remain open at all times per her request.

  Raphael stifled the urge to talk and plastered a smile on his face. “Perfectly fine, sir. Thanks for asking.”

  Quintilius sighed, turned and walked out, but at the entryway he whispered over his shoulder, “Don’t let me down, kid.”

  At the alpha’s parting words, Raphael’s midsection cramped. The same RYS psychologist had told him it was how his body responded to uncomfortable situations. In the past, throwing up had usually followed the cramps, and migraines would start soon after. Uncomfortable situations sucked big time.

  When the clock in the hall chimed five in the afternoon, Raphael escaped his office and cleared the personnel only exit before Iris could say anything. Running down the steps at breakneck speed, he reached the garage, then grabbed his bicycle and left the building. He passed the gym, but even sparring wouldn’t calm his nerves, so he kept pedaling, zigzagging through cars and pedestrians, and earning a few insults in the process.

  His stomach still hurt, but his mind had cleared by the time he reached the Mattatoio. A whole different shift was in charge of the infirmary that evening. He nodded at the man at the door and asked for Carla.

  “She was feeling much better and moved to the shelter.” The man pointed out at the hallway and at the door opening to their right.

  Raphael thanked him and headed toward the shelter. Built inside the Mattatoio, like the medical facility and the infirmary, the youth homeless shelter helped paranormals without mortals being the wiser. Possibly the only tenet keeping all paranormals united, renegades knew how important it was to keep their true identities concealed at all costs. So, it wasn’t a surprise that Carla had opted out of the infirmary and gone to the shelter.

  “Hi.” He found her in the common area where the kids were entertained with craft projects.

  “Hi.” She waved at him from her low chair. Sitting at the small kid table, she was playing with a little girl with curly hair. “This is Lara.”

  The girl bounced on her seat and Raphael smiled at her. “Hi, princess.”

  The girl made a smack sound with her chubby hand over her lips.

  “She’s her daughter.” Carla tilted her chin toward a group of teenage girls milling in the corner by an industrial stove.

  The little girl was human and so was her mother, the one teenager with curly hair the same color of the girl’s. When you lived on the streets, problems were the same no matter the species one belonged to. Paranormals were more resilient, but they were susceptible to the same heartache as humans, and to the lure of drugs. Pregnancies happened.

  Lara raised her short arms toward Raphael, and he took her in his embrace, then spun her around as she giggled louder and louder, asking him to go faster. Her mom came a moment later with a bowl of mashed potatoes and accompanied her to a nearby table.

  “Her father is in jail,” Carla said when mother and daughter were out of earshot.

  Raphael was surprised there was a father at all. “She’s lucky.” He sat on the little chair, his legs straight in front of him.

  Carla tilted her chin toward Lara’s mom. “From what I heard, it seems he’s actually in love with her.” Carla’s voice had a sad tinge to it, she then turned to Raphael, leaned over the table and grabbed his hand. “What if I’m pregnant?”

  “I can get a pregnancy kit for you, but if you ask any of the nurses, they can test you now.”

  “Okay.” But she didn’t sound like she was going to act on that.

  “Talk to a counselor. There’re nice people here. They can help you.” He squeezed her hand.

  “They’ll ask details.” She shook her head. “No, I don’t want to talk to anyone about what happened to me.” She avoided his eyes and took her hand away from his.

  “You’ll do it when you feel like it.” A cramp hit his stomach. “Do you want me to bring the kit tomorrow then?”

  She nodded, her eyes on the maroon veneer peeling from the table.

  “Do you have a place to go?” Raphael looked around.

  Designed to give teens a few days respite from the trouble they were trying to escape, the social center was a temporary house. Social workers would be called soon for Carla; their mission to help her find a place in mortal society.

  “No, I don’t.” She hunched over the table and hugged herself, slowly rocking on her chair. “And I don’t want to go to RYS.” Her eyes widened and her lips trembled as she said, “Please, don’t report me to the Controller. I heard what happens there—”

  Raising one hand, he stopped her. “It isn’t as bad as it was before at RYS, but I’d never report you.”

  She heavily sighed and stilled her chair. “Thank you.”

  “You still need to be out of here by tomorrow. It’s a full moon in two nights.” He released his ponytail and played with the black rubber band.

  “People might be looking for me already—” She paused for a breath, then added in a whisper, “I escaped from the Reds.”

  “The Reds? You mean the street gang?”

  She nodded.

  Having stretc
hed the rubber band to its limits, it stung his fingers when he accidentally released it. “Shit.”

  She shivered. “They won’t stop until they find me.”

  “I heard they’re resilient.” In his past life on the streets, he had the misfortune to meet the Reds a few times, and they weren’t happy memories.

  The Reds were one of the most aggressive bands of lawless thugs that had ever darkened the streets of Rome. Werewolves who had decided to defy Quintilius’s power and desecrate his city, one drug deal at a time. They didn’t mind dirtying their hands with the occasional human trafficking as well. Despicable and ruthless, the Reds would hurt Carla until she would try to kill herself again.

  Raphael had no doubts she would succeed next time. “There’s a place you could go.” He pushed the chair aside and offered her his hand.

  She looked up but didn’t move. “What? Now?”

  “It would be for the best.” He glanced at the clock on the wall shaped like a Mickey Mouse silhouette. With a smile he forced in place, he stretched his hand further toward Carla. “And it’s still early enough for me to accompany you there and be back to my apartment before midnight. I might get some sleep tonight for a change.”

  Seemingly unaware of his attempt at lightness, she resumed the rocking. “What if the Reds catch us in the streets?”

  “I know where their turf is, and we’ll be moving in the opposite direction. Plus, the place where I’m taking you is underground and accessible through the Promenade. So we won’t be out for long.” Tying his hair back, he tilted his head toward the exit. “Not lots of adults around at the moment. There won’t be a better time to leave the Mattatoio.”

  Twisting on the chair, she gave the room a brief glance, then faced him and stood. “Okay.”

  He put both hands in his jeans pockets and strolled toward the exit opening to the internal courtyard. With a side glance, he checked she was following and saw her take a big breath and exhale as she closed the distance between them.