For four generations in her family, a woman had been brutally murdered, starting with Anne Donovan. Ending with her mother. It was a fear that had plagued her all her life—the bogeyman, the family curse, the toxic press of mortality clouding everything she did, every decision, every long-term goal—that she would die young, suffer a brutal death at the hands of a stranger. Her mother had laughed at it. Disregarded it.
But her mother was dead now.
And Sara was afraid that, one way or another, she would be the next to die.
Chapter Two
Gabriel was in a much better mood when Sara Michaels showed up promptly at one the following day. He had gone walking the night before, to the river, down Frenchman Street, then across Rampart over to Louis Armstrong Park, grateful for the cooler night air, appreciative of the fact that as an immortal, he could walk into areas that weren’t safe for the average man at night. The park was dark and desolate, the perfect place to be mugged, but Gabriel enjoyed the solitude it brought him, the joy in knowing that while everyone else stayed away, he could walk alone.
He had spent his whole life on earth walking alone. That hadn’t been his job. He had been sent to Watch. Guide. Protect. But he had failed on all counts and knew there was no forgiveness, no redemption for him. He could never make amends large enough to recompense the wrongs he had committed, though he wanted to at least try in Anne’s case.
It was a triumph, a goal well met that he was living a chemical-free life, and he fought hard against the temptation to slide back into bliss, the fog where he was smart and right and everything was easy and calm. That fight took everything he had and there was nothing left for sorting out a path to redemption, which was why he had never attempted to confront the truth in Anne’s case, had never wanted to know if ultimately he had been the man who had taken her life.
He was ready to face that truth now. And even if he didn’t and couldn’t seek true redemption, an entrance back to the kingdom of God, he wanted to be released from his punishment. He wanted to be more than a Watcher. He wanted to participate in humanity, something thus far he couldn’t do, because every woman he touched craved him as an opiate. They all spiraled down into desperate despair when he couldn’t give them enough, was never enough, and he had chosen to isolate himself entirely rather than bring that fate on any woman. But he didn’t want to be alone anymore, and he wanted to be released.
He thought maybe the answer to the future lay in the past.
Despite the rocky introduction, he felt cautiously optimistic as he let Sara into his courtyard, then up the stairs to his apartment for the second time. He had realized that this working arrangement with Sara could be mutually beneficial. They both wanted murders solved that they were personally haunted by, and it would be easier for both of them with the other acting as a buffer. They could each focus on the opposing case, and eventually compare the two, and as a result they would both be able to hold back, retain some measure of logic and control. He hadn’t addressed the facts of Anne’s murder since its occurrence, not wanting to find irrefutable proof that he had in fact killed her. But now it seemed the timing was providential, and there was more at stake than clearing his own name, or absolving his own guilt.
There was Sara’s mother, and the intense need to fix the future of his long, mortal, flawed existence.
He didn’t necessarily deserve companionship, but he was also looking forward to it. In some capacity. Without allowing Sara to get too close to him or his life. It was a fine line, and he wanted to walk it. That alone should alert him to the inherent danger, should serve as a red flag that he was seeking out the thrill again, disregarding good sense for the sake of personal interest. But Sara seemed harmless, and he was in control, in ways he hadn’t been before. He was stronger now and he could handle anything.
Sara looked tired, even more so than the day before, and her shoulders drooped, her expression pinched like she was suffering from a headache.
“Rough night’s sleep?” he asked as he led her into his office.
She sank without hesitation onto the couch when he gestured for her to sit. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Did you drink a lot of caffeine?” His editor complained about not being able to drink caffeine past seven, so it seemed like a safe thing to say.
“No.” Sara stared back out into his living room. “Do you play?”
“What?” He looked where she was gesturing, confused for a second. Then he realized what she was referring to. His baby grand, collecting dust in the left corner.
“The piano. Do you play it?”
Never. “I used to. Not anymore. But the piano’s been here since the house was built. It was brought in as they were framing the house so it would fit through the narrow doorways. There’s no way to get it out now without destroying it.” Much like him.
“Why don’t you play anymore?” Her sad, tired eyes locked with his.
Sara Michaels wasn’t losing sleep from too much caffeine. It was worry keeping her up. He felt that interest again, nagging, persistent curiosity scratching at him, and for some reason he told her the truth. Heard the words come out of his mouth before he even thought about the wisdom of speaking them. “I don’t hear music anymore.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry . . . That sounds sad . . . I didn’t mean to. . . .” She blushed, obviously distressed.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” It was true. He didn’t hear music in his head, his heart, his soul anymore. Everything had gone silent. His fingers no longer ached to sketch, to capture the light and the figures around him, the notes no longer played in his mind, and words weren’t clamoring to escape onto paper. “I don’t miss it.”
Whether that was true or not, he wasn’t sure, but Sara looked like she needed reassurance. “Do you miss being in the lab?”
She propped her chin up with her hand, leaning forward so her elbows were on her knees. Wearing another flowing dress, she exuded that same sense of femininity, fragility, as she had the day before. “Not right now, I don’t. Which worries me. It’s been almost a year since I took a leave of absence. I should miss it more.”
“Maybe it’s a matter of going back. When you get there you’ll realize you missed it more than you thought.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t look any more convinced than he probably sounded. “You too, then, you know. Maybe if you play, you’ll realize you miss it.” When he didn’t answer, Sara straightened up. “So what do you want me to do on the project? What’s my first assignment?”