by Paula Weston
PRAISE FOR SHADOWS
‘One of the best angel books I’ve read, if not the best, with brilliant characters and its own take on the genre which I had previously sworn myself off.’
THE OVERFLOWING LIBRARY
‘Shadows’ fast-paced narrative, risqué romance and snappy dialogue kept me absolutely hooked and I stayed up late into the night to finish this book…The smart-mouthed character of Rafa kicked the Edwards, Peters and Jacobs of the YA world to the kerb. If only he were real…’
SUN BOOKSHOP
‘Forget everything you think you know about angels and demons…Shadows is, by far, THE book to read…[it is] beyond explosive with a kickass heroine, an amazing storyline with incredible mythology, and a romance sure to heat up even the coldest of hearts.’
WINTER HAVEN BOOKS
‘Fans in need of another angel series after finishing Lauren Kate’s Fallen will devour Shadows…there’s a heroine—Gaby—to get behind, a boy—Rafa—to fall in love with, as well as the many sides fighting to win you over.’
BOOK PROBE BLOG
‘Oh my God (almost literally)! If this doesn’t drag young adult readers away from their computer screens, nothing will. It will entrance many oldies too. Aussie author Paula Weston’s debut is a fast-paced, sensational ride, which screams “read me” and “turn me into a movie”…it’s a wild start to what should be an even wilder series.’
ADELAIDE ADVERTISER
‘One of the best YA novels I have ever read.’
DARK READERS
‘A breath of fresh air in an over-saturated market…I urge any paranormal fiction fans to pick up a copy immediately.’
WONDROUS READS
‘I have to say that this is in my top of 2012 reads and I’m so glad I picked it up. I can’t wait for the next in his series. If you’re looking for the next incredible paranormal, fallen angel type story…look no further because this is it.’
FIC FARE
‘O-M-freakin-G…This book was AWESOME! So, so, good. Quite possibly my fave Aussie release this year.’
BOOKSWOONING
‘If you told me last week that I’d be fan-girling over a YA urban fantasy series I would’ve stared at you blankly then hurled a copy of Friday Brown at your face.
*Quietly eats hat* I loved this book. Loved.’
TRIN IN THE WIND
‘Tough, smart and refreshing…not to mention it’s the best angel-themed book I have read.’
ALPHA READER
‘This book should be right at the top of your wishlists.’
INKCRUSH
‘It’s got angels, it’s got demons, it’s got hot guys, it’s got sword fighting and it’s got a strong female lead. What else could you ask for?’
SHARPEWORDS
Paula Weston lives in Brisbane with her husband. She reads widely, and is addicted to paranormal stories. Haze is the second book in the Rephaim series. Shadows was the first.
HAZE
PAULA WESTON
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © Paula Weston 2013
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copy right owner and the publisher of this book
First published by The Text Publishing Company in 2013
Cover design by obroberts
Cover photograph by Eduardo Diaz/Arcangel Images
Page design by Imogen Stubbs
Typeset by J&M Typesetters
Printed in Australia by Griffin Press, an Accredited ISO AS/NZS
14001:2004 Environmental Management System printer
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author: Weston, Paula.
Title: Shadows / Paula Weston.
ISBN: 9781922079923 (pbk.)
ISBN: 9781922148599(ebook.)
Series: Weston, Paula. Rephaim ; bk 2.
Target Audience: For young adults.
Subjects: Nightmares—Fiction. Angels—Fiction. War stories.
Dewey Number: A823.4
FOR FREDDIE
IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT
I almost wish I still had the blood-soaked dream of the nightclub.
At least then I’d be asleep, not lying here in the dark chasing thoughts I’ll never catch. The jacaranda tree outside is still in the warm night; the moon casts a slight shadow of its twisted branches against the wall.
It’s the quiet moments like this that get me, when it’s impossible to pretend I have a grip on everything that’s happened in the past week. In the daylight, in this bungalow, I can fool myself into thinking I still have control over my life. But here in the dark I know that’s a lie. And my life already has too many lies. For a year I believed four things: that my twin brother died in a car accident; that nothing in my life would matter as much as that; that my violent dreams are not real; that my memories from before are so faded because I was badly hurt in the accident that killed Jude.
It turns out none of these things are true, and it’s the truth that keeps me awake. The biggest truth of all: Jude might be alive.
The shadow shifts on the wall, sharpens, blurs. The ache comes back into my chest. The possibility that I’ll see Jude again, the cruel hope of it, never fails to take the breath out of me.
A year of hurting and missing him.
A year of nightmares.
And now the truth. The impossible truth.
My eyes track to the mattress on the floor next to my bed; Rafa’s boots are beside it. The TV is on in the lounge room, volume low, blue light flickering under my door. Through the thin walls I can hear Maggie stirring in her room. Jason might be in there with her, but chances are he’s on the couch in the lounge room, ignoring Rafa or being ignored by Rafa, still thinking of ways to make amends for not telling her he’s one of us. Maggie’s forgiven me because I didn’t know.
How is Maggie sleeping? Is she dreaming of demons? Or of the three Rephaim who held her hostage up the mountain to get to me? I wish I could undo Monday and Tuesday night. I wish I could remember what it is everyone wants me to remember. What Jude and I actually did a year ago. It’s not that I don’t want to.
I roll over in bed, stare at the silhouette of the old tree outside and the smattering of stars beyond it.
Rafa says we’re safe for now, but given he’s sleeping on my floor instead of in his own bed at the shack he can’t really believe that.
Not that he spends all night on the floor.
I turn again, kick the sheet off. Pull it back over me again. God, I need to sleep.
The TV goes quiet in the other room. A few seconds later my door opens and closes, floorboards creak beside the bed.
Silence. I breathe as though I’m sleeping. I can feel him listening. And then a zip slides undone, clothes drop to the floor and Rafa slips under the sheet with me. Warmth radiates from him. His movements are slow, careful. His breath soft on my skin.
Like last night, he doesn’t touch me. The night before, Tuesday night—after the attack at the Retreat when we got Maggie back—I leaned against him when he settled behind me. As soon as our bodies touched he went straight back to the mattress on the floor. Shifted from my bed to his. It’s one of the more annoying talents of the Rephaim—their ability to be somewhere else in the blink of an eye. He didn’t say anything. No explanation. No smartarse comment.
So, since then, we don’t touch and we don’t talk and he stays.
We’ve slept beside each other before—on the couch on Patmos, when Rafa told me who I was. What I was. Then he was teasing, testing me. This closeness is different. Almost restrained. There’s no sign of this Rafa during daylight hours. I know he doesn’t want to finish what we started in his bedroom, but why sleep in my bed if he doesn’t want the temptation?
He gets comfortable behind me, so close I can almost feel him. Almost. A deep sigh shifts my hair, tickles my neck. I close my eyes.
He knows I’m not asleep; he has to. So is he testing me or himself?
One week. That’s how long it’s taken to get this complicated. That’s how long I’ve known Rafa. He’s known me for a lot longer, but I don’t remember it so it doesn’t count. I don’t remember anything that’s true before I woke up in hospital a year ago. I don’t remember anything about my life with the Rephaim.
I should roll over, say something. Talk about Jude. Talk about the Rephaim and what their next move will be. Demand to know what happened between Rafa and me—that other version of me—all those years ago. Ask him to tell me again what he knows about the fight that Jude and I had, and why we made up ten years later, and what it was we did a year ago that nearly killed me. But he doesn’t have answers and I don’t want him to leave my bed. I don’t want to be alone with those other thoughts.
‘Can you keep it down,’ Rafa says. ‘I can hear you thinking from here.’
Typical. He even breaks his own rules. Outside the stars disappear behind a bank of clouds.
‘Gabe.’
I sigh. How many times do I have to tell him? I swear he calls me that other name just to get a reaction. I pull the sheet over my shoulders to my chin.
‘Gaby,’ he says. ‘We can’t put it off any longer.’ He still doesn’t touch me.
‘What?’ I keep my back to him. I know what’s coming next: the one thing guaranteed to keep me awake a while longer.
‘Tomorrow we go to Melbourne and start looking for Jude.’
FREEFALLING
‘You don’t have to do this,’ I say to Jude.
‘Yeah, I do.’ He grins at me and then catches the eye of the girl testing the straps around his legs. She stands up, double-checks the clips and harnesses around his chest and hips. Once, twice. Blushes under his gaze. Honestly, how many backpackers have flirted with her, and still Jude gets a reaction?
Her offsider is calling out as he goes through his equipment and mechanical checklist. Music pounds around us: dirty guitars and fuzzy keyboards thumping out of speakers. The cable car moves under our feet and a breeze pushes the hair from my face. I don’t have to look over the edge; I can feel the pull of that gaping space from here. We’re up so high there are wispy clouds below us. My lungs constrict and I don’t know if it’s because the air is thin or because Jude is about to jump, leaving me here alone. I shouldn’t be here, but Jude sweet-talked the jump coordinator into bringing me with him.
‘You ready?’ someone shouts from the other cable car, which is now heading back down. It’s the blue-haired Korean guy from the tour group we hung out with in the village last night.
‘I was born ready,’ Jude calls back. His eyes are bright. ‘Hundred and forty metre freefall, baby!’
They salute each other with a fist held out straight, as if they’re symbolically bumping knuckles across the empty space.
I knew we shouldn’t have come to Switzerland.
‘Jude,’ I say, forcing his attention back to me. ‘What if something happens to you?’
‘Princess, nothing’s going to happen. Look around, these guys know what they’re doing.’
‘I mean it.’
There’s something in my voice that brings him back to me, overrides his buzz. ‘Gaby’—all traces of playfulness have gone—‘if anything ever happens to me, you’ll be fine. You’re strong enough to look after yourself. I hate to admit it, but you don’t need me. Never did.’ A smile. ‘But listen, nothing is going to happen today. It’s all good.’
‘Jude, we’re high enough up to get a nose bleed.’
‘So come with me.’
I blink. ‘Fuck off.’
‘I mean it. We can do this together.’ He raises his eyebrows at the girl who checked his harness. She nods.
I risk looking over the side. There’s a river far beneath us. So far down we can’t hear it. My entire body goes numb.
‘You’ve got about thirty seconds and then I’m going on my own.’
What a choice: watch my brother jump out of this car or put aside my own fear and go with him. Share the recklessness. Why didn’t we go to Paris? We’d be arguing over where to buy cheese right now.
Adrenaline begins to burn through me. ‘Screw it.’
Jude breaks into a wide smile. ‘Seriously?’
I glance at the yawning space beneath us. ‘Hurry up before I change my mind.’
I keep my eyes on Jude while the girl rigs me up, then harnesses me to him. My heart bangs against my ribs. Finally, we’re guided, shuffling, to the edge. It’s all happening too quickly. But the music, the fear, the pounding of my heart. It’s…exhilarating.
Jude must see it in my expression. He grins at me. ‘Told you.’
I look down again. The bungee cord loops into the thin clouds, swaying. My stomach lurches. The girl positions us: one arm around each other, gripping each other’s harness; my head tucked tight against Jude’s neck. We clamp our free hands together.
The countdown starts. ‘Five, four—’
Holy shit, I’m really doing this. My pulse is erratic.
‘Three, two—’
I’m with Jude. I’m okay. But, god, please don’t let that cord break.
‘One.’
Gravity pulls us. Undeniable. Irresistible.
‘Hang on,’ Jude says.
We don’t even have to lean forward. We just fall.
I jerk awake. Rafa is still in the bed with me, his breathing slow and deep. I quieten my breath till I can hear the low pounding of the surf from down the hill a block away. Check the clock: four-thirty. Close my eyes again.
These memories of Jude, I cling to them even though I know they’re not real.
Someone gave me that memory. Gave me all the memories I have of my fake life and my brother. And that someone wants me to believe Jude and I took a crazy leap together. Stood over an abyss and chose to fall towards a river.
Why?
If Jude is alive, if the impossible really is possible, then other impossible things are true too. Would he take the news as well as I did?
Jude, fallen angels exist.
Jude, we’re half-angel bastards. Our father is one of the Fallen. Our mother is long dead. There are more of us out there. The Rephaim. Some of them you’d like, others you’d want to punch. But they’re still better than the demons hunting our fathers.
Oh, and Jude? You’re meant to be dead.
Me too.
Yeah. It’s a little complicated.
It starts to fade—the memory, the rush, Jude’s voice. Every part of me aches. How am I supposed to accept the Rephaim’s version of my life when I don’t remember it? How can I let go of the only thing I have left of Jude? These memories are all I’ve had this past year. How do I understand who I am, who I was, when they all claim to know a different version of me?
I drag my spare pillow close, bury my face in it. Try to hang on to that image of Jude grinning at me, the sky and the unknown behind him and below him.
God, I miss him.
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
Jason is cooking breakfast: blueberry and ricotta pancakes. He must think he can win Maggie back through her tastebuds. In fairness, it won’t harm his chances.
‘That smells amazing,’ I say. It’s so bright in the kitchen I can feel the night receding. On mornings like this it’s easy to believe the Pan Beach sun can burn any darkness away. Jason turns briefly, looks at me as if he can see remnants of my night. Whatever he’s thinking he keeps to himself.
‘Nearly read
y,’ he says, pouring batter into two pans on the stove, swirling each with practised efficiency. Pretending there’s nothing wrong with me and that there’s no tension in the room.
I glance at the couch. Pillow, sheet and blanket neatly stacked at one end. He and Maggie are talking again, awkwardly. Jason has spent his life avoiding the other Rephaim, so she understands why he took so long to tell us what he was, but she’s not letting him off the hook quickly, which is the clearest sign yet she’s fallen for him. Jason could go back to the resort—Rafa is here every night in case the demons come back to Pan Beach or Nathaniel sends more Rephaim for me or Maggie. But we all know Jason’s not going anywhere.
I’ve known Jason for a week too. Apart from the time I knew him a century or so ago, and our reunion last year before Jude and I did whatever we did. But I don’t remember either: more memories lost along with everything else from my old life. With his long blond curls and my dark bird-nest hair, it’s hard to believe his mother and mine were cousins. Two Italian peasant girls seduced by fallen angels. I’m still getting my head around that one: that our fathers were among the two hundred Fallen who broke out of hell, spent two days and two nights roaming the earth and then vanished. Selfish pricks.
I can’t bear to think about my mother—the woman who gave birth to Jude and me a hundred and thirty-nine years ago. She doesn’t feel real. The mother I know—that cold, distant woman always so quick to criticise—feels real, but it turns out she never existed. I can’t grieve for either of them, not yet.
Maggie is pretending to be busy revamping a handbag. The kitchen table is awash with vintage buttons: greys and blues, red and pinks, tipped out from the jar she keeps on top of the fridge.
‘What do you think?’ She turns the bag around so I can see what she’s done so far. ‘This one is from a dress Mum wore to the Melbourne Cup in the sixties.’ She points to a red button shaped like a flower. ‘And this came from my old tweed jacket.’ Her blonde hair is tied at the nape of her neck, loose strands framing her face.
‘It’s very you.’
