by Paula Weston
‘What’s your story?’
The question catches him off guard. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you don’t seem to be a meathead like Taya and Melchezedick—’
‘Malachi.’
‘Whatever. You’re different, so what do you do?’
‘I’m one of the Council of Five. The governing council of the Rephaim.’
‘I thought Nathaniel ran the show.’
‘He’s our leader, not a dictator. We elect our own council every five years.’
That explains a lot. He’s a politician. ‘I hope you don’t think you’re getting my vote.’
He dips his head but I think I catch a smile.
‘What?’
When he speaks, his voice is warm. ‘You’re like my Gabe in so many ways. I miss her.’
My Gabe?
I’m trying to work out how to ask the obvious question when there’s a rap on the door. Daniel stands up, his face again composed in that infuriatingly calm expression. He talks to someone in the hallway and then comes back into my line of sight.
‘I have to attend to something. You should drink some more before I go.’
He pours another glass of water and again slides his fingers into my hair to hold my head. It makes me think of Rafa.
And then Daniel’s gone and I’m alone, tied to a chair in a monastery in Italy. I’m exhausted. Every muscle in my body aches and my eyelids are too heavy to keep open. Warmth floods across my chest, and as I give in to the pull of sleep, the realisation hits.
The bastard has drugged me.
LIVING IN MY HEAD
As usual, I wake to pounding guitars and screaming vocals. Bloody Jude and his need for continuous noise, even at this hour of the day.
‘Turn that down!’ I call out, and drag the quilt up to my neck.
My bedroom door opens and the music blasts even louder. Jude stands there in torn jeans and a faded t-shirt. ‘What?’ He grins at me. ‘You love it.’
I throw a pillow at him. He catches it in one hand and saunters over, kicking the door shut behind him with his bare foot. The wall of noise is again muted. Jude holds the pillow like he’s going to use it as a weapon, but when he reaches the bed he tosses it aside and sits down.
His thick dark hair is a mess but, as usual, it looks good. We have the same crazy hair, but I can never pull off that level of cool dishevelment. Kids at school used to mistake us for each other from a distance, at least until I grew my hair to my shoulders and filled out my bra.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I think we should do it.’
I sit up against the bedhead, drawing my knees to my chest. ‘Do what?’
‘Hit the road.’
A smile spreads across my face. ‘Hoo-fucking-ray.’
Jude laughs. ‘Some guys mightn’t want to kiss a mouth as dirty as yours, you know.’
‘Lucky I’m interested in culture then, not foreign tongues.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
I give him a gentle shove. We sit there, grinning at each other. Where will we go first? We’ve always talked about Machu Picchu…
‘They’re going to lose it,’ I say, nodding in the direction of the kitchen, where our parents are eating their homemade eggs Benedict and sipping freshly squeezed organic juice.
‘They’ll find a way to spin it. They always do.’
Our parents have high hopes for us. Our father is a big deal in legal circles. He married beneath him when he fell for our mother, and his parents never let him forget it. They’d hoped having exceptional children would justify the choice. Unfortunately, Jude and I haven’t lived up to expectations.
We’ve inherited our parents’ good colouring and bone structure, we have above-average grades, do well at sport and have thriving social lives. But it’s not enough. Jude loves music but doesn’t play. I love to read, but my writing’s never going to set the world on fire. Neither of us have a gift worth bragging about at dinner parties.
We should be planning for our futures in law or medicine or literature studies, not watching bands on weekends, reading fantasy and daydreaming about Machu Picchu, Abu Simbel and the Colosseum. I wish I had a dollar for every time one of them told us what a disappointment we were, more often than not in front of their friends. Or ours. We could have left years ago.
‘Are you sure we’ve got enough cash?’
Jude nods. ‘For a couple of months at least, especially if we start in countries with a kind exchange rate. Say, Peru?’
‘You read my mind.’
‘And when the money’s gone, we’ll look for work.’
‘Good enough for me.’ I smile. ‘They’re off to Paris again next month…’
Jude nods. ‘We can get organised by then. We’ve got money, maps and passports—’
‘Our charm and wit.’
‘Now all we need is an itinerary, and a brilliantly crafted letter that makes them think we’re finally taking some initiative, which they can take credit for.’ He collapses back on the bed and stares up at the patched ceiling, a reminder from our father that tennis is not an indoor sport. ‘We’re going to do this, aren’t we?’
I nudge him with my foot. ‘You bet your arse we are.’
Jude turns so he can look me in the eye. ‘You’re not worried about what could happen?’
I shrug. ‘Nope. You?’
‘Shit, no. It’s you and me against the world, kid. Who’s gonna get in our way?’
It’s the best dream I’ve had of Jude since he died, and I can still hear his voice when I wake up. About a second before someone shoves my head into a tub of freezing water.
WEARING BLACK AND BLUE
I claw at the fingers that are clamped around my neck, holding me under. My throat has closed over, but water rushes up my nose. My lungs are on fire. Air…Any second now I’m going to pass out.
I thrash and kick, striking something that feels like bone. My head is ripped out of the water and I’m flung backwards, hitting something hard. A wall. I make horrible noises trying to get air back into my lungs. The floor under my hands is tiled, and cold. Tremors rip through my body. I’m soaking wet, tasting blood.
‘Come on, Gabe, you’ve got to have more than that.’
Through strands of wet hair, I see Malachi standing with his leg up on an enamel bath, rubbing his shin.
We’re in a gleaming bathroom with fresh white towels and a thick bath mat I’m possibly about to throw up on.
‘What’s happening?’ I manage to rasp.
‘I’m trying to help you.’
I choke. ‘What, drown?’
He sits on the edge of the bath. His goatee and straight hair are jet black under the heated lights. ‘Come on, you know you can’t die unless you lose your head.’
I stare at him, more interested in breathing than speaking.
‘We don’t kill each other, Gabe. There’s not enough of us left as it is.’ He checks me over. ‘Ready?’
I scramble sideways as he comes at me, wondering where Daniel is and why Malachi’s been let loose on me. But the door is shut and Malachi grabs me by my hair before I reach the handle, and drags me back towards the tub.
‘You know how to get out of this,’ he says, keeping clear of my fists. I search for purchase on the tiles, but he’s too strong. I have time to inhale before he plunges my head under again.
Back in that wet, muted world, the panic is overwhelming. I can’t die. I could drown for hours. I open my eyes. Black spots flicker against white enamel. I reach out, fingers scraping for the plug. But the bath is too big; I can’t reach it.
The thought comes again. I can’t die. This isn’t about killing me—this is about hurting me. And by thrashing I’m making Malachi’s job easier.
I stop struggling, but his grip doesn’t loosen. He must know how long he’s got before I slide into unconsciousness. I grip the bath again and push back with all my strength. Malachi presses down harder to keep me under. When he’s right over me, I le
t my arms go limp. He loses his balance, stumbles, and I slam my elbow upwards. From the way he lets go of my hair, I’ve found the target.
Again I stagger back, gasping, but this time I keep my feet. I look around for a weapon, but there’s nothing close by except a plastic toilet brush.
‘Shit, woman.’ Malachi’s leaning against the wall, clutching between his legs but still blocking my way to the door.
What would badass Gabe do in this situation? I lunge for the brush. Surprise registers on Malachi’s face just before I fling it at him. I wrench open the door and stumble through.
Daniel is standing with his back to the room, looking out the window. He turns when he hears me and I race for the outer door. I’m moving too fast and hit it hard with my shoulder. I grapple for the door handle, and then my break-out attempt is over. It’s still locked from the outside. Of course.
Daniel hasn’t moved from the window, but he’s watching me, his face bleak. It’s darker outside—late afternoon. How long was I out?
I sink to the floor. ‘What the fuck?’
Daniel glances at the bathroom and runs a hand through his dark hair. ‘The easy way didn’t work.’
I push my soaking fringe out of my face. ‘For what?’
‘Getting to the truth.’
‘I’ve told you the truth.’
‘No, you haven’t, because you don’t remember it.’
I sit there, dripping water all over the carpet. ‘You think drugging and drowning me will help?’
‘I gave you something to open your mind, but it’s a mess in there. Everything bleeds together.’
‘So the next option is to let that arsehole hold my head underwater?’
Something in the bathroom catches Daniel’s attention and he holds up a hand to stop Malachi from whatever he was about to do. ‘It’s not just your mind that’s forgotten things—your body has too. If we can get your instincts to kick in, then maybe your mind will follow.’
I wring out my hair. ‘Did I pass?’
He moves closer.
I wish I had something to throw at him. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Gabe, this is not the way I wanted to do this. But whoever did this to you left us with no choice.’
‘Of course there’s a choice—you could choose not to hurt me! You could accept my memories are gone. Whatever I may or may not have known about your precious Fallen no longer exists.’ I stop to catch my breath again.
Daniel has paused halfway across the room. ‘The Fallen are as important to you as they are to us. Your father is among them, and your fate is as tied to them as ours.’
Malachi emerges from the bathroom, his jaw set. Daniel gives him a cursory glance. ‘Go,’ he says.
Malachi raises his chin, as if he’s not quite ready to walk away from his work.
‘Now,’ Daniel says.
Malachi eyes me, and then he disappears in a blink. I should have known he wouldn’t leave the room like a normal person.
Daniel offers me a dry towel. I snatch it and wipe my face and neck, and then drape it around my wet shoulders. He sits on the bed and gestures for me to join him.
I don’t.
‘Gabriella—’
‘It’s Gaby.’
A sigh. ‘Gaby. The Fallen are the scourge of heaven and hell. They’re hunted by angels and demons, reviled for their weakness. We’re their illicit offspring—the product of their sins.’
‘So?’
‘The archangels despise us—they’ve only let us live because of Nathaniel.’
‘How does finding them change any of that?’
‘It shows we’re loyal to heaven.’
‘Why don’t you just leave it to the demons to find the Fallen and take them back to hell? Find something else to do with your lives.’
Three lines crease his smooth forehead. ‘The only way we can redeem ourselves is to deliver Semyaza and the Fallen to the Angelic Garrison, show that we’re willing to hand our fathers over.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then the archangels will accept us among them.’
‘How do you know that’s what they want? Or that they’ll give you anything?’
Daniel’s face darkens. ‘What crap has Rafael been telling you?’
It’s the closest he’s come to profanity. I’m tempted to keep pushing, but I have a more important question.
‘Where’s God in all this?’
‘God’s covenant with mankind has nothing to do with us,’ he says. ‘We’re neither angel nor human. We’re something in between.’
I hold out my arms. ‘Really?’ I’m trying to mock him, but the idea I’m something other than human deeply unnerves me.
‘Appearances can be deceiving.’
‘How can you be so sure you’re not just a human with a few special gifts?’
‘Humans grow old and die. Humans have children.’
I pick at the carpet, breaking his gaze. Not that I was planning on having kids anytime soon, but I’d assumed I’d be able to if that day came.
‘We’re hybrids, Gabriella, we can’t procreate.’
Is that a hint of bitterness?
I stretch out my bad leg. My knee protests. ‘But God created angels and humans. Angels were there at the virgin birth, and they were there when Jesus rose from the dead, after dying for humans. You can’t separate the two. So how can we be nothing?’
Daniel stands up. He rotates his wrist until it cracks—further evidence he was something other than a politician not so long ago. ‘We leave the existential questions to our priests and philosophers. And you forget, we have Nathaniel.’
‘An actual fallen angel.’
‘An actual angel.’ The edge in his voice warns me I’m heading into territory that may lead to my head in a bath again.
I shiver. I’m wet and cold. The adrenaline has gone now, and my muscles ache. ‘Any chance I could have a hot shower without someone trying to drown me?’
He regards me for a moment and then nods. ‘Of course.’
I use the door handle to pull myself up, then limp across the room. I pause before I go back into the bathroom. ‘Why is everyone so convinced that what happened to me has anything to do with the Fallen?’
Daniel closes his eyes for a second and sighs. ‘Do you believe a car accident is responsible for giving you new memories?’
I rub my neck. Malachi’s fingers have left more bruises. ‘No. But do you really think Jude and I found the Fallen when no one has been able to in over a century?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘You think two hundred angels are just hiding out somewhere in the world?’
‘We’re not convinced they’re in this dimension.’
It takes me a second to absorb that. ‘Then how is anyone going to be able to find them?’
Daniel picks a tiny piece of lint from his shirt. ‘Wherever they are, they got there from somewhere in this realm, and if we can find that location, Nathaniel can track them.’
‘Oh.’ My brain is now officially full.
The door closes behind Daniel. No flashy shifting like Malachi.
I shut myself in the bathroom and stand there for a good minute, staring at the water in the tub and the twisted bath mat. And then I dash to the toilet and throw up.
THE LIE IN THE REFLECTION
In spite of everything, or maybe because of it, the shower is the best I’ve had for a long time. The water pressure is so fierce it almost drives me against the glass screen. I withstand it, letting the heat seep into my bones.
Emptiness gnaws at me.
I can’t ignore it any longer. The sense that something’s missing. I’ve always assumed it was Jude, but maybe what I’ve been missing is me.
I help myself to expensive-looking shampoo and conditioner. When I finally get out of the shower, smelling like aloe vera and vanilla, I drag my forearm across the steamy mirror and look at myself. Still the same Gaby. Somehow, I keep expecting to see someone different—the perso
n everyone else seems to know.
Wet hair drips down my back. I run my fingertips over the lumpy tissue on my neck. It feels the same, but it means something else now.
Someone tried to cut my head off.
I had stitches and recovered the slow, painful way. Nobody shifted and healed me. Does that mean Jude really is dead? Because if he survived, surely he would have healed me like Rafa did. I exhale. I need to run to make sense of this. What are the chances Daniel will let me take a few laps around the grounds?
I open the bathroom door and let the steam out ahead of me. The room is empty. On the bed is a selection of t-shirts and jumpers, all grey or black and all designed for function over style. No designer labels here. Maggie would be appalled.
Maggie.
Rafa must be back at the bungalow by now, probably tearing Jason a new one for letting me leave. Not that he could have stopped me.
I put on two t-shirts and a long-sleeved shirt and feel more grounded. I go to the window. The sky is almost completely dark now and hanging lamps have come on around the piazza. Shadowy figures hurry along the cloister. The need to be moving is almost unbearable. I can’t run, so I pace, flipping the bird to the camera in the corner, once or twice.
All right, so what do I know? I make a mental list.
I’m the bastard child of a fallen angel.
I used to live here.
Jude left a decade ago and I stayed; we stopped talking as a result.
Something happened a year ago and we made up.
We didn’t tell anyone what it was that ended our rift.
We went missing together, presumed dead.
I survived and someone wiped my memory.
I pass by the window, see my reflection in the dark glass, my nervous pacing.
Let’s say Jude and I somehow found the Fallen. It makes sense they would wipe my memories. But why would they give me the fake life I remember? Whoever altered my memory wanted me to remember Jude. Wanted me to think I had a normal childhood. That I was okay with not having a relationship with my parents. They made sure I grieved deeply for my brother.
Why?
Steam drifts out of the bathroom and I go over to shut the door. Someone’s standing on the bath mat.
