But true. And he was a demon, after all. Raphael had sinned like all the rest of them. He had succumbed to the pleasure of flesh and food and wine and turned his back on his duty. In the nineteenth century he had cared more for the cut of his coat than his position as coroner. But murder? Gabriel would have never guessed. It sickened him.
Tapping quickly, Gabriel did another search. This one yielded an e-mail address and phone number. Raphael hadn’t tried very hard to cover his tracks. Working for twenty minutes, digging up everything Gabriel could—history, education, professional associations—on Rafe Marino, he hit the jackpot when he found that one Dr. Rafe Marino was the sole benefactor of a trust. The very trust that had purchased a house in New Orleans two years prior. On Dauphine Street.
It was the House of Rest for Weary Men.
Owned by Raphael.
Which unlocked the memory of the man, angry and swearing at Madame, leaving Anne’s room. The voice that had sounded familiar to Gabriel, but which he’d spent a hundred and fifty years trying to place without success. It had been Raphael. He was absolutely certain of it, so obvious to him now he couldn’t imagine why he had never realized it before.
Raphael had killed Anne.
Gabriel hadn’t.
Relief and horror mingled together and left him staring blankly at the screen, the words blurring together.
“Are you okay?” the lady sitting next to him asked. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
And then some.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said automatically, glancing over at her. She was in her eighties, her skin loose and peppered with age spots and veins. Her navy sweater enveloped her as she hunched over the computer keyboard, her glasses perched on her nose.
She patted his knee with her soft and delicate hand. “Whatever it is, this too shall pass.”
“Sure.” Wherever there was evil, there was always good, and this woman was his reminder of that. A memory of duties long ignored. So he smiled at her, and for the second time that day, he let someone see the depths of his power, the beauty, the promise, the vision of his palace in the sky.
Her hand gripped his knee tightly, the strength in her astonishing, as her eyes went wide. “Have you come to take me?” she asked.
“No. It’s not your time yet.” He could feel that in her. She had years of vitality still.
“Are you my guardian angel?”
The longing rose in his soul, aching and heavy, painful, dripping sorrow for what he had done, for what he had lost, for what he had betrayed and could never be again.
Gabriel stroked the top of her withered hand. “No. Just a friend.”
From the Court Records of
the Willful Murder Trial of Anne Donovan,
State of Louisiana v. Jonathon Thiroux
January 16, 1850
ATTORNEY FOR THE DEFENSE: So, Dr. Raphael, what you’re saying is that in your expert medical opinion, Jonathon Thiroux could not have killed Anne Donovan?
DR. RAPHAEL: That is what I’m saying. I do not believe Jonathon Thiroux had the strength to kill Anne Donovan.
From the Court Records of
the State of Florida v. Dr. Rafe Marino
July 26, 2007
PROSECUTOR: So, Detective Manson, what you’re saying is that in your expert opinion, given the lack of forced entry, and the victim’s daughter’s assertion that her mother locked her doors and windows, the victim knew her assailant?
MANSON: That is what I’m saying. I can say there was no evidence anyone came into the house who wasn’t let in by the victim.
ATTORNEY FOR THE DEFENSE: Objection! How can he know that the doors weren’t left unlocked?
JUDGE: Sustained.
PROSECUTOR: Can you explain how you have reached the conclusion the victim knew her assailant?
MANSON: Well, how do you explain that the front and side doors were dead-bolted and chained yet the back door was wide open? What makes sense is that the victim came into the house with her assailant or she let him in, then locked the door behind him. Then after he killed her, he unlocked the back door and left, leaving the door a foot open so he wouldn’t make any more noise than was necessary. That’s the most logical scenario.
Gabriel was climbing the stairs to his apartment, wondering what exactly he should tell Sara—or not tell her—when the door was flung open and she stared down at him.
“Thank God you’re home.”
“Why, what’s wrong?” Concern kicked in and he jogged up the remaining steps. Sara looked pale and shaken.
“Who’s Alex?” she asked.
Great. Just what he needed, Alex sniffing around Sara. There was no telling what the demon would say to her. “I’ve known him a long time. Why? Was he here?”
“Yes. He was sitting on the couch when I got home. He said you gave him a key because you’re old friends. I thought he brought this—”
She reached behind her and pulled a bottle off the table in his entryway. “But he said he didn’t. It was just sitting outside the front door. Who would do that?”
It was a bottle of absinthe. Gabriel’s mouth went dry. Alex was either lying and had in fact brought it as a way to mock him, or it had been another demon. Possibly Raphael. Only demons knew who Gabriel was, and what he had been. There wouldn’t be any reason for anyone else to associate him with absinthe.
Whoever it had been, they were pushing him into a confrontation. He wasn’t going to tolerate anyone interfering in his life, his problems. With his Sara.
But his first priority was reassuring her.
“I don’t know who would do that.” He took her elbow and gently urged her inside. “Come on, let’s go in.”
“Do you think . . .” She swallowed hard. “Do you think someone could have seen me last night? Drinking the absinthe and . . . everything?”
By everything, she meant touching herself. Lifting her skirt and stroking herself to a beautiful, shuddering orgasm. Then leaning against his piano while he tasted between her thighs with his tongue and lips. It was an everything he would love to repeat.
He wouldn’t. Not after Rochelle.
But then again, Sara didn’t seem obsessed with him in the aftermath, and he had poured all of his passion, feeling, intensity into her. It had been a touching with intimacy and emotion, frustration and lust, and yet while she had responded as a woman, she didn’t seem to have altered her attitude toward him. Maybe she was immune to his punishment.
It was a dangerous path of rationalization.
It would happen. She would become obsessed, addicted to him.
It always did.
He couldn’t live with himself if she became Rochelle.
“No, I don’t think anyone saw you. How could they? This is the third floor and the only window in the room faces the courtyard and the roof of the carriage house.”
She bit her fingernails. “You’re right. But why the hell was there a bottle of absinthe sitting outside the door?” Running her fingers across her bottom lip, she paced, Angel darting out of her way and leaping onto the couch. “First the pictures, now absinthe. Someone is toying with me, and it’s starting to really piss me off.”
Gabriel could see that. She had pink cheeks, tousled hair, and an exasperated look on her face. While there was definitely fear in her eyes, there was also anger. She was mad that someone was interfering in her life.
“I want to be left alone.”
“Me, too,” he said with all sincerity. The question was, how much did he tell her about Raphael, who was known to her as Rafe? She liked the guy. Thought he was innocent. And Gabriel had no proof of anything other than the fact that Raphael had known both women, which of course he couldn’t share with her. Nor could he tell Sara that he was concerned about Rafe’s actions because he had in fact known him in the nineteenth century when he had been Jonathon Thiroux. “I can’t explain what is going on here, but I want you to know that you’re safe here with me, Sara. I’ll protect you.”
To the demon death, if necessary.
She didn’t deserve that, had done nothing to bring this kind of fear, suffering, on herself. Gabriel couldn’t undo the past, but he could prevent any more harm from befalling Sara. It felt like his fault, like he had somehow been responsible for introducing Raphael into Sara’s world, which was totally irrational. He hadn’t known that Raphael could have killed Anne, and had never thought of him as a threat to anyone. He had lost track of him years ago and had been perfectly content to not know anything about him.
Back in the nineteenth century, Raphael was actually the one who had introduced him to Anne. She had been Raphael’s mistress first, but Gabriel had bought her away from him, attracted to her auburn hair and sweet smile. Raphael hadn’t cared. He had said he was tired of her, had indicated she had a level of prudery he had no patience for.
But if Gabriel hadn’t killed Anne, then Raphael had, which meant he had very much cared, hated. The relief that it hadn’t been him, the very thing he had longed to believe for so many years, his innocence, didn’t bring the comfort Gabriel had thought it would. It was a relief, yes, but with it came a fresh wave of guilt that if it was Raphael, he should have known. Should have prevented it.
Gabriel reached for Sara, needing to feel her in his arms, wanting her hands likewise on him. She came into his embrace from the side, wrapping one arm around his front, the other around his back, burying her face in his shoulder. Her body was soft, warm, petite alongside his, and he felt it again, that unmistakable swelling of emotion in his chest.
He was in love with her.
Yet she deserved so much more than him, a damaged burned-out shell of a man, with guilt that clawed and ate at him, and a control that vacillated depending on the day.
“How’s Rochelle?” she asked, head still in his shirt.
It was that concern, that compassion, that intensity of heart and soul and feeling that he admired, adored, in Sara, and it was the very thing that would crush her if he let their relationship go any further. There was no future for them. He had to acknowledge that. Even more so now that he knew about Raphael.
“She was doing okay. She was awake when her parents got there. She seemed confused and embarrassed more than anything else.” Gabriel stroked Sara’s hip. “I feel so damn bad about what happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Indirectly, it was. He knew that. Accepted responsibility. Hated it, and wanted to fix it. But didn’t know how. If he thought for one minute he could get a straight answer, he would go to a demon, like Alex, and ask if they knew how he could end his punishment. But he suspected Alex would either mock him or give him false answers for his own personal amusement. He had distanced himself from all the other demons, including Marguerite, who he had once considered a friend. He hadn’t spoken to her since she’d betrayed him and lied during his trial.
“You need to stop doing that,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“Your silence is your denial. You don’t say anything when you disagree with me. It’s something I’ve noticed. Obviously you don’t like conflict any more than I do. But in this case, you are wrong. You’re not responsible for whatever is wrong with Rochelle. She imagined a relationship, and she obviously has some serious issues that have nothing to do with you.”
Or Rochelle had fallen victim to his demon lure. But Sara was right. He wasn’t going to argue with her. There was no way to argue his point. And while it bothered him that Sara didn’t know all of him, didn’t understand the true depth of who he was and what he had seen, done, there was no option to tell her the truth. She would think he was insane and leave.
And he couldn’t let her go.
“I guess this is where I stay silent again.”
She gave a muffled laugh. “You’re a good man, Gabriel St. John.”
He wished he could claim that. “I haven’t tried hard enough. I’m going to try harder from here on out.” He needed to fight for redemption, for the right to live among mortals without the danger of causing them harm. He wanted the opportunity to use his gifts again, for the pleasure of people, and to inspire, to allow them to see beauty around and within themselves.
Escape no longer appealed.
He was ready to change, to make it all right.
“Gabriel, I have something to tell you.” Sara took a deep breath, not at all sure how Gabriel was going to respond to the fact that she had lied to him. But she needed to tell him, now, before they went any further. He had let her into his life, into his work and his apartment. Into his sketching and his music. He had offered her comfort, security, passion, and understanding. He had looked at her and let her know that he knew what it was like, how she felt, what grief and fear and addiction could do.
She owed him the truth.
“What’s up?” he asked, squeezing her upper arm.
It was hard as hell to peel herself off of him and meet his eye, but she did it, because she was tired of being afraid, exhausted from the cowering and the worrying and the looking over her shoulder all the time. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about myself. I agreed to help you on this book because I wanted to solve my mother’s murder, that’s true. But I thought that was really a long shot . . . that if the police couldn’t solve it and the court couldn’t get a conviction, then there was nothing I could do. But I thought maybe in going through the case, comparing it to Anne Donovan’s, I could find some closure.”
She wrapped herself tighter around him, knowing he would pull away, not wanting him to. “Because what I haven’t told you is that I’m interested in Anne Donovan’s case because she was my great-great-grandmother. And I want to know why the women in my family are murdered the same way, generation after generation.”
Gabriel’s eyebrow went up as he stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“I’m Anne Donovan’s descendent.” She could feel it—he was moving away, trying to disengage himself from her arms— but she hung on. “And the coincidences between her murder and my mother’s scared me. That’s why I came here.”