by Paula Weston
‘Gabriella, you need to let Zachariah heal him now.’
I nod at Brother Ferro, give Rafa’s wrist a gentle squeeze, and step back. Malachi is sitting up now too, watching Brother Benigno take the IV needle from his arm. It’s an effort, but Rafa twists so he can see him. ‘I owe you one.’
Malachi glances back at Taya. ‘No, compagno, we’re square.’
I realise Daniel has been standing by Taya’s bed all this time. He doesn’t speak.
‘We’ll shift around the compound,’ Zak says to me. ‘Straight back, I promise.’
They disappear. I close my eyes, breathe in antiseptic and bleach, start to count to ten to calm myself. Cold air stirs against my skin before I get to five. They’re back. Rafa keeps his arm around Zak for support. He gives me a tired half-smile. His face looks better, less shiny and purple, and his left eye is no longer swollen shut. Brother Ferro is straight in to check his wounds, probing, prodding. ‘Praise the saints, they’ve closed over.’ The monk leans over the bed and pats Malachi on the knee. ‘Good job.’
Rafa looks around for Jude. ‘You intact?’
Jude gives a short laugh, touches the dried blood above his ear. ‘Yeah, buddy. I’m fine.’
‘You hold your own?’
‘I did okay.’
Brother Ferro waves Jude and me away. ‘Rafael needs a shot of antibiotics and a sedative.’
‘I don’t need sleep,’ Rafa mutters, struggling to keep his eyes open.
‘That’s exactly what you need.’ Brother Ferro pulls off his latex gloves and tosses them into the bin. ‘But first we’ll clean you up and dress those wounds properly. Zachariah, could I trouble you for some help there too?’
A tired laugh rumbles out of Rafa. ‘A sponge bath from you two? Shit, this makes it all worthwhile.’
‘The rest of you can go now,’ Brother Ferro says. ‘You too, Gabriella. Rafael needs rest. His body has taken a lot of punishment.’
I think about arguing, decide not to. I move closer to Rafa, fiddle with a corner of his torn shirt. ‘See you when you wake up.’
Rafa runs his fingers along my forearm. ‘We’re staying here?’
‘For now.’
His eyes stray to my lips. ‘Okay.’
‘Come on buddy, let’s get you to the washroom.’ Zak changes his grip on Rafa.
‘Put him in my room when he’s ready to rest.’
Zak looks at me over his shoulder. ‘You want me to leave him in your bed?’
I nod, conscious that Daniel is watching. Brother Ferro hustles them along before I can see Rafa’s reaction. The door clicks shut and there’s an awkward silence.
‘How’s Taya?’ I ask.
‘Doing better.’ Malachi holds cotton wool inside his elbow where his IV was. ‘She was awake a few minutes ago. Brother Benigno gave her something so she’d keep sleeping. I’ll shift with her again in a while.’
‘But she’s healing okay?’
‘Yeah. She didn’t lose anywhere near as much blood as Rafa.’
‘Thank you.’ I say it quietly.
A shrug. ‘What’s a bit more blood out of me today?’ He looks exhausted. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘That’s a good question,’ Daniel says, crossing the room. ‘What happens when the Outcasts are ready to leave?’
‘I don’t know, Daniel. It depends on what Rafa and Jude want to do.’
‘You need to think about who you trust.’
Jude blocks his path, stops him from reaching me. ‘How the fuck can you talk to Gaby about trust after what you did to her?’ Everything about Jude is a challenge: his posture, his tone. The way he eyeballs Daniel.
I catch a shadow of something in Daniel’s face—guilt? Regret? But it’s already gone. He keeps his eyes on me. ‘You’ve been so quick to decide who to put your faith in—’
‘Don’t you dare make this about Rafa,’ I say. ‘Not now.’
‘I’m talking about before. I wouldn’t wish what happened to Rafa on anyone, but that doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t trust him a year ago. Before you disappeared, you’d spent a decade looking for any opportunity to meet him in a fight so you could hurt him. Really hurt him. You should at least trust that, if nothing else.’
I reach for the gurney, touch the sheet Rafa was bleeding on only moments ago. ‘I trust Rafa with my life.’
‘And that’s going to be your downfall. You’ve thrown your lot in with him. You’ve aligned yourself with the Outcasts.’
‘I haven’t aligned myself with anyone.’ But that’s not true anymore. Not after Iowa.
Jude looks from me to Daniel and back again. ‘Okay, what’s going on here? Why’s he so obsessed with you and Rafa?’
I really don’t want to talk about this with Jude. ‘It doesn’t—’
‘Gabe and I were lovers.’
Oh my god. Could he be any more of a tool about it? I meet Jude’s eyes and recognise what I find there: disappointment. It stings. ‘I don’t remember it,’ I remind him. Malachi finds something interesting on his shoe, leans down to get a closer look.
Jude’s gaze shifts back to Daniel. ‘Then how the fuck could you put her in a cage with a monster and watch it suck the life out of her? What sort of prick does that to someone he’s shared a bed with?’
He’s talking about me having sex. Shoot me now.
‘We’re not having this conversation,’ I say. I walk over to the stainless steel bench, pick up a clean scalpel. Think about throwing it at Daniel.
‘No, I think we need to. This arsehole thinks he has some claim on your loyalty. Let’s explore this.’
‘Let’s not.’
‘No, Gabe, he needs to hear the truth.’ Daniel faces Jude. ‘Your sister was smart enough not to follow you and Rafa a decade ago. She remained loyal to the Sanctuary, to the Rephaite cause. You were running around with Mya, risking human lives, risking the lives of your friends—letting Esther be torn to shreds by a hellion—all for the sake of money and ego. Gabe stayed here and kept our forces strong, kept searching for the Fallen. She never forgot the truth: that we are nothing until we deliver the Fallen to the Garrison.’ Daniel is breathing quicker now, his neck tense. ‘Then she started talking to you again last year and in less than two weeks she was gone. She left without telling anyone what she was doing, which means she was doing something she didn’t want us to know about—something you talked her into. She disappeared without a trace. The Gatekeepers started a rumour they’d caught you tracking the Fallen…’ His eyes slide to me. ‘As far as I knew she was dead. Gone. Forever.’
‘Don’t dump your guilt trip on him. You don’t know who influenced who,’ I say. ‘Or what we did.’
‘And then she turns up alive, with no memory of who or what she is or what happened,’ Daniel says, as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Because of you, we had no choice but to try to jolt her memory back. Because of you—’
‘We found the Fallen?’ Jude prompts. ‘Then where are they now? And why did that arsehole Bel think he killed Gaby?’
‘Only the two of you know the answer to that.’
I want to punch Daniel to make him shut up. His accusations are so much worse now they’re aimed at Jude because I can see my brother is quick to carry them, repositioning the rest of his baggage to make room.
‘It’s been a big day, Daniel. Any chance you could save the witch-hunt until we’ve caught up on some sleep?’
He pushes a shirtsleeve down and rolls it up again, each fold precise. ‘If that’s what you want.’ I get the feeling he’s talking about more than me sleeping.
‘It is.’
‘Fine.’ And he’s gone. Shifted. Again.
Malachi shakes his head. ‘You really have a gift, Gabe. Nobody winds him up like you do.’
The infirmary door bangs shut and I turn to see Jude’s gone. I find him out in the hallway, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He rests a forearm on one knee and stares at the black marks on the lino, decades’ wor
th of gurney wheels and boots.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say.
‘Everyone here seems to think it is.’
‘Daniel’s not everyone. And he was laying all that blame on me not so many days ago.’ As was Taya, but I’m not sledging her while she’s lying unconscious and missing a finger.
Jude rubs his jaw. ‘These people we’re supposed to have been…You were with him, we didn’t speak for a decade, I nearly got us both killed last year…I don’t want be those people again.’
‘Me neither.’ I sink to the floor next to him.
‘But if we’re going to work out what happened last year, we have to know who we were.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And it scares the shit out of me.’
SANDALWOOD, CINNAMON AND HONEY
I stand outside my door, feel weirdly nervous.
Jude has gone to his room to talk to Ez. I argued for all of ten seconds about going with him to break the news about Mya. My need to see Rafa is stronger. Maggie, Maria and Dani are safe—Dani’s sleeping—so they don’t need me right now.
I take a breath and open my door.
Rafa is in my bed.
He’s on his back, head turned to one side, mouth slightly open. His chest rises and falls with the slow rhythm of sleep—or, actually, sedation. There’s a pile of clothes stacked on the carpet—jeans, trackpants, t-shirts and jumpers—probably out of the supply Mya brought for Jude. I lock the door behind me and stand there for a moment, watching him. Try to order the thoughts crashing around in my head.
Mya is not who she says she is.
A family in Iowa is most likely receiving signs from an archangel who wants the Rephaim to stay divided.
I beheaded a Gatekeeper demon.
I still don’t know what happened a year ago. Or a decade ago. Or anything before that.
But Rafa is here in one piece, sleeping soundly. And Jude is close by—banged up but alive—trying to figure it all out. My throat closes over. God, I am shattered. I pick at my shirt. And I’m filthy.
I grab clean undies and a fresh shirt from my pile on the floor and head for the shower. The water is warm and strong, comforting. I scrub myself clean and wash my hair.
A waft of steam follows me out of the bathroom, wraps around my bare legs. It’s dark grey outside. Titanium clouds hug the mountain ridges beyond the Sanctuary. Rafa is on his side now, still breathing deeply. The lamp on the desk throws a soft pool of light over the bed.
I stand for a few seconds and watch him sleep. Then I lift the doona, ready to climb under. Rafa’s chest and stomach are wrapped tight with bandages but the rest of his torso is bare, and that trail of hair…Wait—is he naked? Is this Zak’s idea of a joke: leave Rafa in my bed unclothed and unconscious? My pulse skitters. I lift the doona a little higher. Am I still going to get in if—but no. He’s wearing low-rise fitted boxers. I let out my breath and slip under the covers. The sheets are cool. The doona floats down slowly and then I’m wrapped in smells that are all Rafa: sandalwood, cinnamon, honey. I lie facing him, breathing him in. I’m tired, but I don’t want to close my eyes. I want to look at him for a while. This volatile, smartarse half-angel I can’t live without. I know we have a complicated history, but whatever’s going on between us feels simple right now.
His hair sticks up in odd directions like it always does after a shower. His lips are slightly apart, the lower one almost back to its normal size. The stubble on his jaw is darker than his hair. I let my gaze wander to his throat and along his collarbone, to the strong line of his shoulder and then his chest. Tufts of hair poke out from the top of his bandage. I glance at his face and my heart falters: his eyes are open.
We lie there, watching each other. Breathing each other’s air. Not touching.
‘You’re supposed to be sleeping,’ I whisper.
‘No chance.’ His voice is rough from sleep. His eyes roam my face, linger on my mouth. ‘Why did you come to Iowa? Why risk it?’
I don’t answer; I don’t have the words right now. I reach for him, feel the contours of his shoulder and gently roll him onto his back. He lets me. I push the doona aside and sit up in the bed beside him, take a few more seconds to soak in the reality that he’s here, alive, with me. I lean down and kiss his forehead. He slides his fingers into my wet hair, tucks it behind my ears. Watches me with an intensity that steals my breath.
‘Close your eyes,’ I say.
He does, and I kiss one eyelid, then the other. My lips graze over his stubble. I kiss his cheek, his chin, his throat. His fingers trail down my neck and over my shoulders. He smells amazing, all traces of the infirmary rinsed away. I taste his neck, the spot right under his ear. He runs his fingers down my waist, over my hip to my legs. Fingertips on bare skin.
‘I thought I was going to lose you,’ I say, my lips on his collarbone. ‘And I can’t lose you, Rafa. I can’t—’
He sits up—stronger than he should be—and pulls me onto his lap. I hook my legs around him. He holds me close, tight. Inhales me. Trembles. He almost feels more vulnerable than when I found him slumped in the iron room. We stay like that for a moment, bodies moulded together.
‘I thought I’d never touch you again,’ he says, and his hand slips under my shirt, makes small circles on my lower back. I’m aware of every place my skin touches his. Aware of the heat in his body. In mine. He kisses my jaw, my throat; his tongue leaves a trail of warmth. His breathing is quicker now. ‘God, I love being with you.’
His mouth covers mine. This kiss is deep, demanding. It’s like it was on the beach, except there’s less fabric between us. He lifts the hem of my t-shirt and I raise my arms, let him pull it over my head. His eyes drop to my bare skin and for a second, I feel exposed, vulnerable. But then he kisses the hellion scar, runs his thumb over the claw marks in my side. Brushes his fingers across my breasts. I move against him without thought, responding to his touch. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat. And then his hands go still.
‘Gaby…’ His voice is thick, husky. He draws back so he can look at me. ‘One of us needs to stop, and I’m telling you now: I’m not a good enough man for it to be me.’
My heart beats hard against my ribs. My skin raw from his stubble. Every part of me aches for him. It’s not that the past doesn’t matter—it does. But not here. Not in this moment.
‘Gaby—’
‘This is me, Rafa. Me. Nobody else.’
I tighten my legs around him and pull him with me down to the mattress. I roll my hips so he has to reposition himself between my thighs. I feel his heart now against my ribs, strong, insistent. The other part of him responding to me.
Rafa searches my eyes, sees what he needs there. His lips find mine again. We kiss until my tongue aches. And then his lips trail down my neck again, my collarbone, under my arm, along my ribs to my abdomen. He slides my underwear down so he can kiss my hip. He keeps sliding the fabric as his lips work down to my thigh, my knee, my ankle. He kisses the tender skin on the sole of my foot, distracting me from the fact I’m now naked.
He works his way back up my body, and I reach for his boxers. He watches me through heavy lids as I help him out of them. And then he’s naked too, except for the bandaging around his chest and thigh. The dressing taped over his stomach.
Rafa draws me to him again, his tongue and fingertips teasing until my entire body is on fire. I wrap my legs around his hips, draw him closer. Finally, he positions himself above me, weight on his arms.
‘Are you sure?’ He’s breathless, full of need. But he watches, waits for my response.
This is it. I run my hands up his forearms, over taut biceps. My entire body hums. I’m sure. ‘Be gentle.’
He smiles and everything inside me dissolves.
‘You too.’
NO PARACHUTE
Afterwards, we lie together.
‘You all right?’
I nod. ‘Are you?’
He laughs, deep his chest. ‘That wasn’t my first time.�
��
I press my thumb into his bandaged side, gently. ‘No, but you’re pretty banged up.’
‘Trust me, I’m not feeling any pain right now. You?’
‘No. It’s…weird. That didn’t feel like my first time.’
He gives me a pointed look.
‘Yeah, I know, technically it wasn’t.’
‘Was it okay?’ He’s looking at me seriously.
I close my eyes, remember the sounds that escaped me. My enthusiasm for him. I put my face back against his chest so he can’t see the heat there. ‘It was okay.’
His hand slides down my back, lower. ‘Just okay? Wait until I’m full strength again.’
A thrill runs through me at the thought.
‘You should sleep,’ he says.
‘Look who’s talking. You staying in here?’
‘You’re naked in my bed—I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Actually, it’s my bed.’
‘Actually, it’s some random bed in the Sanctuary.’ He pauses. ‘Why are we at the Sanctuary?’
‘Long story. Can we sleep first? I’m wrecked.’
He draws me closer, slides his fingers through my still-damp hair. ‘Gaby, we can do whatever you want, as long as you stay within arm’s reach.’
I dream of demons and hellions. Of a terrifying darkness punctuated by flickering light and the stench of wet leaves. There’s dirt in my mouth, blood on my face, pounding in my head.
Pounding.
It comes again. I surface from the suffocating darkness, taste soil and blood. Someone is knocking on the door. Rafa is already on his way over, stops to pull on trackpants. They hang low on his hips. The room is shrouded in early evening gloom. He looks back at me, hand on the doorknob.
‘Hang on,’ I say, still groggy. I grab my undies and t-shirt from the floor. He watches me put them on, a half-smile playing on his lips. I look around for my spare clothes. The bathroom. The knock comes again. I get back into the bed and pull the covers over my legs.
Rafa cracks the door open. ‘Hey,’ he says, and blocks the view into the room.
‘Shit, man, you look much better.’ It’s Jude. I grip the doona tighter. Wish I had on more clothes. I’m not game to make a run for the bathroom in case Rafa opens the door wider.