by Paula Weston
I feel more than see Ez stiffen beside me. God, I hope Daniel knows what he’s doing. Zarael is beside the woman now, towering over her. He puts his arm around her shoulders, and she holds out her phone to take a selfie with him. She’s all nerves, fingers twitching. Her smile falters: she’s seen his scars. The demon’s grin widens, as if posing for photos with tourists is his favourite thing in the world.
A movement catches my eye. Another monk, much older, is walking towards them. Wispy white hair floating in the breeze.
‘Brother Stephen,’ Jude whispers, eyes fixed on the screen. ‘He gets around.’
‘What is he doing?’ Mya’s voice is stretched thin.
Brother Stephen’s palms are up, as if apologising for interrupting. The woman tries to step away. Zarael pulls her closer, laughing, as if they’re both in on a joke. The monk holds out his hand for her phone. She hesitates and then hands it to him. He steps back to fit her and Zarael in the shot.
‘Go closer,’ Daniel says. The Rephaite at the computer in front of him clicks three times and the camera zooms in. Magda’s beads are clacking double-time now, in sync with my heart.
The demon strokes the woman’s hair so hard her head moves back with his hand. Brother Stephen says something to her. She nods, eager, and pulls away from Zarael. This time he lets her go.
‘Don’t…’ Mya whispers.
But Brother Stephen has already stepped in to take her place. My skin chills.
The elderly monk and the former head gatekeeper of hell stand side by side, posing for her. Zarael doesn’t put his arm around Brother Stephen: he clamps fingers around his neck. The woman takes a quick snap and then hurries towards the chapel, her red coat stark against the gravel car park. She doesn’t look back.
Zarael turns so he and Brother Stephen face away from the chapel. He wrenches the monk’s arm behind his back and Brother Stephen’s face contorts.
‘Daniel…’ I barely get his name out my mouth is so dry.
And then the demon lifts his face to the security camera, smiles, and snaps the old man’s arm.
HOOK, LINE, SINKER
My stomach drops and Mya appears onscreen a split second later.
‘Nobody else leaves!’ Daniel orders.
Ez looks to Jude and me, urgent, and we reach for her at the same time. I’m in the vortex for a heartbeat—and then I’m on solid ground again, buffeted by cold wind. The air is thick with the smell of pine trees and bus fumes.
Zarael is dragging the monk towards the forest, the tip of his sword pressed under his chin. Brother Stephen moans in our direction. Terrified. Blood trickles down his throat.
‘I love that you are so predictable,’ Zarael says. The Outcasts are all here now. He grins at us, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses, and disappears. Brother Stephen slumps to the gravel. I check the trees. Bel and Leon are gone.
Mya races for the monk but Daisy and Micah materialise before she gets there. Micah kneels and gently lifts Brother Stephen onto his lap, cradling his arm and putting pressure on his bleeding neck. I stand guard with Jude and the Outcasts, watch the forest for movement. Blood thuds at my temples.
‘I can help,’ Mya says, panting.
‘You’ve done enough,’ Daisy snaps. ‘We’ve got this.’ Micah and Brother Stephen disappear.
‘Shifting will heal him?’ Jude asks me.
‘No. It doesn’t work on humans. He’ll need stitches and that arm set.’
Jude runs a hand through his hair. ‘I thought that prick was going to take the monk with him.’
‘Me too.’
‘Why didn’t they stay and fight?’
‘Because that’s not what he came here to do,’ Daisy says. She faces down the Outcasts, not caring she’s outnumbered. ‘He came to bait you lot, pure and simple.’
‘Shut up Daisy.’ Mya ties her hair up with a violent twist of her wrist.
‘Think about it: Zarael knows your crew is here. He knows your first instinct is offence, and ours is to wait. He knew he could stir up strife just by being here.’ Daisy spins the sword in her hand. ‘Daniel wants everyone back in the library. Now. And don’t you dare shift anywhere else, you chickenshit.’ She points her katana at Mya.
‘Hey.’ Ez blocks Daisy from getting any closer. ‘That’s enough.’
Daisy eyeballs Ez for a second and then disappears.
‘She can go screw herself,’ Mya says. ‘I’m going to check on Brother Stephen.’
Ez sighs. ‘Do you really think that’s smart?’
‘I don’t care, I’m going.’ And she’s gone. Dry pine needles stir on the ground where she was standing.
Zak looks to Jude and me. ‘We going back in there?’
‘Nothing’s changed,’ Jude says. ‘We still need them. Gaby?’
My thoughts slide back to Rafa. How long has it been now? I check my watch. Three hours and four minutes. Three hours and four minutes. It’s always there, the sickening feeling that twists everything inside me when I think about him. What’s happening right now? Is he conscious? Is he fighting? Is he even alive?
The knot tightens.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We go back in.’
Everyone else has left the library except Daniel and Daisy. Ez, Zak and Jones stay close to Jude and me. The rest of the Outcasts fan out behind us. Daniel’s chest rises and falls. His eyes find mine. Furious.
‘If you intend to stay here, you need to follow orders.’ He measures his words. ‘If any of you pull a stunt like that—’
‘You call saving an old monk from a demon a stunt?’ Jude challenges.
‘You lost the right to worry about anyone here when you walked away a decade ago. You and your crew—’ Daniel stops, takes a slow breath. Takes a moment to gather himself. God forbid he should lose control.
Jude turns to Daisy. ‘You say Zarael came to stir us up, so why didn’t he do more damage while the tourists were still in the car park? Why not bring out the hellions?’
‘Gatekeepers don’t make a habit of showing themselves and their pets to humans,’ Daisy says.
‘Why not? What are they afraid of?’
She pauses, as if it still surprises her he doesn’t know the answer. ‘The Angelic Garrison.’
‘Okay, so why haven’t the archangels taken them out already? Why let demons exist in the world at all?’
Daisy turns to Daniel.
‘Because there are greater battles building.’ Daniel’s voice is steadier now. ‘There are boundaries between heaven and hell: lines that exist until the end of the age.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means some knowledge is not for us.’
‘That sounds like the kind of bullshit doctrine you trot out when you don’t know the answer.’
A small, bitter laugh escapes Daniel. ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’
I massage my temples. I need to stop this before it deteriorates into yet another slanging match.
‘Daniel.’
It’s an effort, but he shifts his attention from Jude.
‘Did you know you have a mole here at the Sanctuary?’
Daniel blinks. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘That room in Iowa? There was a drawing board covered in floor plans for this place with notes about who lives where, and the walls were covered with photos of Rephaim—’
‘Photos of whom?’
‘You, me, Jude, Rafa, Mya, Nathaniel…Photos taken when everyone was still together. Rafa did an inventory and everyone was accounted for. The women who built that iron room know a hell of a lot about the Sanctuary, for people who’ve never been here.’
‘You didn’t mention that yesterday.’
‘I didn’t get a chance.’
‘Your friend Jason is the only one who’s been in contact with those women.’
I shake my head. ‘Whoever it is has had access to computers, phones and photo albums over decades; has known where Rephaim would be so the surveillance
shots we saw could be taken. They know where Nathaniel sleeps, Daniel.’
‘Nobody here would betray Nathaniel.’
‘Great. Then don’t give it another thought. Keep on pretending nothing’s wrong. Or you could go talk to the one person who knows exactly who your mole is: your house guest.’
Daniel inhales slowly, lets it out even slower. Searches my eyes. And then he walks away without another word.
DID YOU HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE LLAMAS?
The door at the far end of the library clicks shut behind him and Daisy’s eyes skim over the Outcasts.
‘What’s your next genius move?’
Jones sits on the edge of a table, straightens his beanie. ‘Well, first we’ll wring our hands over upsetting Daniel’—he pauses for a response; she gives him nothing—‘and then if the rec room’s not off limits, we might amuse ourselves while we wait for the Five to finally make a decision.’
There are noises of agreement, a few nods. Zak pulls Jude aside and they have a quick chat, too quiet for me to hear. Then Zak disappears.
Daisy raises her eyebrows at Jude. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘To check in on the Pan Beach lads.’ He doesn’t look at me, which makes me uneasy.
Ez touches my arm. ‘You coming with us to play pool?’
‘Actually,’ Daisy says, ‘if you want to see your old stuff, now’s probably the time.’
Oh. The thought squeezes all the air from my lungs. Do I want to see evidence of my old life? I swallow, glance at Jude. ‘You coming too?’
‘Are you kidding? Of course I am.’
We pass through a tiled foyer and then we’re in another piazza, smaller than the one with the fountain, more manicured: clipped lawn, trimmed lavender bushes, polished timber benches along the walls. The chill out here is deeper now, more insistent. The breeze has dropped and a light drizzle falls, so fine it doesn’t make a sound. Jude walks close enough that our shoulders occasionally bump. I want to ask where Zak’s gone, but not in front of Daisy in case I don’t like the answer.
‘Daniel doesn’t seem to be a fan of mine,’ Jude says as we move along the cloister.
Daisy gives a short laugh. ‘That’s an understatement. You’ve been his number one rival for the last hundred and thirty-nine years.’
‘Rival for what?’
‘For the hearts and minds of the Rephaim. And you were winning, until you ran away from home when you didn’t get what you wanted.’
I actually see Jude’s guilt slide back into place. Daisy must see it too because she softens a fraction. ‘You never would’ve challenged Nathaniel to call down an archangel if it wasn’t for Mya. She stirred up a lot of shit.’
He gives a humourless smile. ‘I imagine I was more than capable of stirring up shit without help.’
We walk on in silence until we reach a set of weathered double doors. Inside is a brightly lit garage the size of a small aircraft hangar. Half a dozen cars are lined up on the polished concrete against the wall, most at least a decade old. The place smells of motor oil and rust.
‘Who drives these?’ Jude asks.
‘Mostly the brothers.’
I notice a smaller shape under a cover in the far corner.
‘Is that Rafa’s bike?’ I ask.
Daisy gives me a sideways glance. ‘You’re not planning on riding it, are you?’
‘Not in a million years.’
Jude gets to it first and rips off the cover, lets out a low whistle. It’s lean and shiny and lethal. Jude runs his fingers over the handlebars and I find myself reaching out too. The silver tank has ridges on the side like shark gills. I couldn’t care less about the bike except for the fact it belonged to Rafa. I know so little about him. Why didn’t I check out his room at Patmos, see more of his things? For a heartbeat I have no breath. Oh god, let him survive this.
‘Holy shit,’ Jude says. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘A death wish?’ Daisy offers.
‘It’s a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-11, the fastest road bike on the planet—at least it was a few years back.’ He sits on his heels to inspect the motor. ‘Does a quarter mile in under eleven seconds.’
‘Since when did you become a bike expert?’
Jude looks at me over the leather seat. ‘I’ve always—’ He stops, frowns. ‘Huh.’ He stands up and steps away. Daisy covers the bike again.
‘You love bikes,’ she says to Jude. ‘You and Rafa are obsessed with anything involving speed.’
He touches the handlebars through the fabric. ‘Do you think I could—’
‘Not on my watch.’ She crosses the garage and disappears through another door. I hesitate, torn between wanting to know what that other version of me left behind and worried what it might say about who I was.
Daisy waits in a narrow storeroom. She pulls half a dozen boxes down from shelves and sets them out on the floor. One is already open, scarves, beanies and jumpers hanging over the side as if someone has been rifling through looking for clothes. Which they have—twice now in the past week. Daisy was obviously here last; Daniel would never leave clothes this untidy.
I sit down on the cold concrete and open the other boxes one at a time, spread things around me on the floor. It’s like breaking into someone else’s time capsule. Three boxes are full of books. The first is packed with biographies—Aung San Suu Kyi, Nelson Mandela, Che Guevara, Gandhi. The second, manuals on weapons and martial arts; hand-to-hand combat through the ages; traditional katana sharpening. The third, paperback novels in languages I can’t read, plus a guide in English to the top twenty-five places to drink espresso in Europe. In another box, there’s a paperweight made from what appears to be real amber; a small Grecian urn, possibly authentic; worry beads; a wheat pack; maps and photos of Monterosso. Yet another jammed with shoes—combat and hiking boots, runners, sensible walking shoes.
Nothing remotely feminine. I need Maggie to see this; it explains a lot about my fashion sense.
Jude is picking through another box. ‘What the hell?’ He holds up a tatty hand-stitched dog, stuffing poking out between its ears.
Daisy smiles, her frustration gone for the moment. ‘We all had one when we were kids. You kept yours.’ She reaches out, gives the long-eared mutt a scratch behind the ear. ‘Your weapons are in the armory.’
I take the dog from Jude, ignore his teasing smirk.
‘What sort of weapons?’ I ask.
‘Three katanas, a dozen or so knives, a crossbow, quarterstaff, mace—’
‘A mace?’
‘You went through a mediaeval phase. It led to the demise of at least three training dummies.’
‘Did I have a computer?’
Daisy nods. ‘Laptop. You must have taken it with you when you did whatever you did. It wasn’t with this stuff when I packed it up. But this was.’
She digs around in a box I haven’t yet looked in and pulls out a photo album. Its padded cover is faded, the spiral binding tarnished and peeling. I take it carefully, as if it might bite, open it slowly.
The first image is a blown-up shot of Jude and me, sitting side by side in a café, suntanned and grinning. His arm is slung around me and he’s holding a glass of wine in his free hand. There’s a donkey poking its head over my shoulder and I can just make out the brim of a straw hat belonging to someone off camera. I’m wearing a red, blue and green knitted beanie, tassels hanging down to my shoulderblades. The photo is stuck down under a plastic protector.
‘Look at that,’ I say to Jude softly. ‘We did make it to Peru.’
He nudges me. ‘And you wore the chullo.’
We smile at each other. There’s something deeply comforting about this image—not everything we remember is a total lie.
‘Turn the page.’
I do and my heart stutters.
It’s Rafa. And me. We’re both wearing black singlets and track pants, doubled over with our hands on our knees like we’re catching our breath. His head is lifted so he can see me, and he’s grin
ning, triumphant. I know the expression: he’s just beaten me in a foot race or some test of strength or skill.
It takes me back to Pan Beach, our race on the sand. Rafa pulling ahead, pushing himself to beat me. Me catching my breath and then losing it again, wrapped around him, peeling his shirt up his back. The pang that hits my chest is so much sharper than desire.
I turn the page, then another. There are so many shots of Jude—in front of pyramids and ancient ruins and massive trees—but most are in cafés or bars, grinning at the camera over a table loaded with food. And almost all of them have Rafa sticking his head in the frame or pulling a face behind Jude’s back.
Here it is, evidence of what I keep hearing: that Rafa, Jude and I were inseparable. A team. What the hell happened to change that? To make that other version of me choose the Sanctuary over them?
However angry I was at Rafa when he left the Sanctuary—however much I wanted to hurt him—it wasn’t enough to destroy these photos. All of them are faded and printed on old-school photo paper. By the state of the album, they predate the digital age by a decade or two.
‘This is…’ Jude doesn’t finish. There are no words.
We keep going.
More photos: Ez and Zak, Daisy, Micah, Jones. Even Malachi and Taya, a reminder they were once a part of my life too. The photos were probably taken in between tracking and fighting Gatekeepers. Here’s one of Ez—without scars—arms stretched across a tree trunk so wide it doesn’t fit into the frame. There’s Malachi holding Micah in a headlock in front of a crumbling stone wall, both of them laughing.
And here’s Daniel in workout gear: standard Rephaim black singlet and track pants. It’s the first time I’ve seen him wearing something other than a collared shirt, and it’s a little startling to see so much toned flesh. He’s smiling at the camera, katana hanging loose by his side, hair slicked back with sweat.
‘Is he any good with a sword?’ Jude asks.
‘Fairly handy.’ I think of how he and Rafa tag-teamed against Bel that first night on the mountain. How easily they fell into a rhythm fighting side by side instead of against each other.