Chronicles of Gabriel, page 11
“Weber’s dead,” Gabriel interrupted quietly. “I stopped his heart.”
He would never forget the look Devon gave him. Not for as long as he lived.
“HOW ARE YOU FEELING?”
The men had trekked across miles of African wilderness, running into a few of those scary predators after all, only to end up walking into the same clinic where Weber had done his work.
It was the mother of all ironies, but it couldn’t be helped.
They weren’t locals, after all. Not the nameless innocents who could be paid off beneath the table or disappeared without a trace. They were wealthy Englishmen—they had stamped visas and people waiting overseas. They also weren’t sick. One of them had simply mauled his hand.
Devon had refused any drugs, endured a brutal examination, then bit down on the strap of his luggage while the on-call physician stitched up his hand. There was a bit of residual damage, but nothing that Rae couldn’t heal once they got back. He’d taken a shower and slept a few hours, while Gabriel had gone into the city and picked up some food that neither of them was ever going to eat.
He was sitting in the window now, his feet dangling over the edge.
“How are you feeling?” Gabriel asked again. “Can I get you any drugs?”
Devon continued staring out over the city, speaking with a strange lack of affectation. “This has never happened to me before. I’ve never failed to complete a mission.”
Gabriel stiffened involuntarily, lowering the bags of takeout to the bed.
He’d failed a mission precisely twice himself. Both times had been with Cromfield. Both times he had barely survived. He happened to know exactly how the fox was feeling.
And he happened to recognize that look on his face.
“You can’t be angry with me for this,” he said quietly, already bracing for the storm. “Karl Weber? The man killed hundreds of people. He would have killed more. Now he’ll never do it again.”
Devon turned around slowly. In a terrible way, he didn’t seem surprised. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”
“You want to ask the people around here for their opinion?” Gabriel countered sharply, refusing to back down. “You want to ask the families of the victims—”
“Stop acting like a child!”
The fox might have recently had his hand reattached in a third-world clinic, but he sprang to his feet—turning away from the window, as his face flushed with rage.
“We can’t make these things personal! We deal in lives saved, Alden! If we’d recovered the information from those files, we could have saved hundreds, maybe thousands down the road!”
“While innocent people suffered in the meantime!” Gabriel took a step closer, forgetting that parts of his friend were still bleeding and leveling him in a fierce gaze. “He was at the clinic today, Devon. He was giving unregulated medication to children today. He’ll never do that again.”
“And you don’t think in one or two generations, someone’s going to pick up exactly where he left off?” Devon countered with equal intensity. “You don’t think it would have helped Rae or Ellie to study what was in those files? You don’t think Alicia could have started working on a cure?”
He’s right.
“You’re wrong,” Gabriel said flatly, pacing suddenly to the opposite side of the room. “It would be more stalling, more deprioritizing. More bureaucratic red tape. I’m not going to stand by and let it happen. I’m not going to watch innocents die while we play with numbers and statistics.” He whirled around suddenly, meeting the fox’s gaze. “Screw your numbers and screw your rules. It was my decision, and I’d make it again. These people are evil, Devon. They need to be violently uprooted. They need to be taken out of play.”
Devon stared a long moment, then shook his head. “You sound just like him.”
There was a pause.
“Barnes?”
“Cromfield.”
A stunned silence fell over the room.
Not if Devon had been given a hundred years, could he have devised a way to inflict more damage. Not if he’d used his fists. Not if he’d used a gun.
“It’s your decision, right?” he continued softly. “You’re the one calling the shots? You’re the one playing God? You are literally quoting lines from that playbook.”
Gabriel shook his head, more shaken than he was letting on. “I just meant—”
“We don’t do that,” Devon interrupted.
Without another word, he turned back to the window—perching in the frame and letting his legs dangle over the side. He was lost in all but silhouette, but Gabriel could still see the judgement in his eyes. He took a step towards him, then let out the softest of sighs.
“Dev—”
“We don’t do that.”
He made it sound so simple.
Maybe it was.
Chapter 10
The men didn’t speak to each other until they touched down at Heathrow. Even then, things were so stiff between them, Gabriel was surprised when Devon slid into the same cab. They continued to drive in such oppressive silence, it prompted their cabbie to turn on the radio.
What felt like a lifetime later, they rolled to a stop in front of Devon’s house.
“Is Rae at home?” Gabriel asked quietly. “Can she heal your—”
The door slammed between them.
—hand.
The fox was gone before he could finish, sweeping up the front pathway and vanishing into the house. His lovely wife was indeed home, but she wouldn’t be his first stop. He was heading for the punching bag in the basement, preparing to give his other hand a thrashing as well.
Gabriel blinked at the window, then stepped onto the curb.
“Tell me you don’t live together,” the driver joked nervously, lifting his hat to acknowledge the generous tip. “Because that man is going to kill you while you sleep.”
The assassin flashed a tight smile. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”
The man laughed and sped off down the road while he cast a parting look at the Wardell’s tidy cottage and made his way slowly across the park to his own house.
The cars were there, but the rooms were empty.
It’s late, maybe they’re asleep.
“Gabriel?”
He glanced up in surprise as a slender silhouette appeared in the door of his bedroom. She paused there a moment, assessing him in the shadows, then padded quietly across the floor.
“How did it go?” she asked softly, tucking back his hair. “What happened?”
He pulled in a breath, preparing to give her the standard answer, then his shoulders wilted and he bowed his head with a quiet sigh.
“I screwed up.”
THAT NIGHT, GABRIEL and Natasha talked about everything. The rules of confidentiality were forgotten as he took her through the entire mission—hour by hour, step by step.
Whether she approved of his decision, she never said. She certainly didn’t approve of his reckless methods, but that was a conversation for another day. For the time being, she simply lay beside him on the bed—crying when he couldn’t, nodding in silent understanding, kissing away the self-loathing, and forgiving him when he couldn’t forgive himself. Considering she never once slipped into her powers, it was one of the more cathartic discussions the two had ever shared. The kind that bolstered existing ties with additional strands of thread. When it was finally over, they slumped back against the pillows—both of them feeling utterly exhausted, each in their own way.
“You want some tea?” she asked after a long stretch of silence.
He glanced over in surprise, then chuckled at the look on her face.
“I won’t subject you to anything else tonight.”
Despite having made great strides in her continuing efforts towards becoming English, his future bride had made little progress in terms of coming to embrace the national drink. The American in her couldn’t seem to brew the perfect cuppa.
“Are you sure?” she asked lightly. “Because I could put on the—”
There was a sudden clatter in the living room.
Gabriel froze unnaturally still, every muscle tensing at the same time. “...is Jason home?”
He was out of bed before she could finish nodding—spiriting down the hall and whipping around the corner, only to be greeted by the most unexpected of sights.
His son was not only home, but he’d also broken into the liquor cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
The boy whirled around with a gasp, having believed himself to be alone until the moment Gabriel decided to speak. His face paled as they locked eyes across the room, but he didn’t let go of the bottle. Instead, he lifted it defiantly to his lips—wincing a little, as he took a giant gulp.
“What does it look like?” he answered, giving it a shake. “I’m making myself at home.”
Gabriel regarded him in silence, no idea what to say in reply.
The boy had been through a trauma, there was no denying it. And given the circumstances, he’d done a remarkable job adjusting to his newfound life. But he’d only been living there for the last two years. There were still boundaries that needed to be tested, there were still lines to be drawn.
He took another painful gulp, eyes watering around the edges.
“Where were you today?”
Gabriel lifted his eyebrows, still hovering uncertainly in the frame. Both he and Natasha had vowed to be as honest with the child as possible, but there were still questions he knew never to ask.
He stood there a second longer, then took a cautious step inside.
“I was in Africa on a mission. It came up last minute,” he added softly, looking the child up and down. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Jason shrugged stiffly, fingers clenched around the glass. “You don’t owe me anything. You’re not my dad.”
...there it is.
Gabriel froze perfectly still, feeling like he’d swallowed a blade.
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the phrase, the boy had said it several times before. Once at random in a grocery store, to correct a stranger’s well-meaning assumption. And again when he was being carried away from the funeral parlor, a pair of tiny fists pounding against Gabriel’s chest.
There had been a kind of progression to it. Not in sentiment so much as tone. In the beginning, it had been a warning—almost an accusation. Later, it was a reminder. Even later, an echo of grief. But this time was different. Gabriel couldn’t quite figure it out.
“No, I’m not your dad,” he answered softly. “But your dad meant a great deal to me, and you meant a great deal to him. So, I’m going to do the very best I can. Alright, Jason?”
The boy trembled where he stood, skinny legs sticking out from beneath an oversized shirt.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” he decided abruptly, swaying slightly on the floor. “I won’t be here for much longer. This isn’t my home, Gabriel. I’m not going to be your charity shop case.”
At that point, Gabriel didn’t know which stung worse, the words charity shop case or his own name. He knew the seven year old meant charity case, and he knew the kid was older than his seven years. He pulled in a silent breath, but gave no visible reaction. His eyes drifted to the bruise.
“Did the kids at school say that?”
Jason acted like he didn’t hear him. With two shaking hands, he lifted the bottle and forced down another rebellious gulp—locking eyes with Gabriel the entire time. A look of sheer disgust rippled across his face, but he made himself keep going. The first few inches were already gone.
“I’m a man, now. I can take care of myself.”
There was a pause, then Gabriel nodded slowly. “I understand.”
“Don’t try to stop me,” the boy warned, wielding the bottle between them. “I’m leaving, do you hear? I’ll be heading out as soon as you give me some money for the train.”
I’m too tired for this.
Gabriel had woken up on one continent, only to find him falling asleep on another. His ears were still ringing with echoes of Saharan gunfire, he hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and that searing pain in his stomach had yet to disappear. This was not something he was able to handle.
...but it needed handling all the same.
He stared a moment longer, then settled abruptly on the sofa.
“And where might that train be taking you?”
The child hesitated, sensing a trap. “Antarctica.”
Don’t smile.
Gabriel frowned instead, nodding thoughtfully.
He reached for his wallet and tossed it lightly on the coffee table, scooting over without seeming to think about it to make room beside him on the couch. At some point, a fire had been started earlier that same evening. The glowing remains were still crackling in the hearth.
“Antarctica, huh?”
The boy stared bracingly, then nodded.
“Well, in that case, there are a couple of things you’re going to need...”
For the next hour, the two settled beside the fire and Gabriel talked him through the logistics—explaining the hazards of shifting weather patterns, which plants were safe to eat and which needed to be avoided, and the best ways to make a wilderness shelter in places with little cover and a strong wind. At one point, he paced into his study and returned with a topographical map he’d stolen from an antique shop in Brussels. Together, the two traced the ambitious route the boy had selected, starting in the Ronne ice-shelf and all the way down to the Amundsen Sea.
At that point, he would most likely start a colony and start preparing for what he could only assume was a very long winter. He’d spend his days befriending polar bears and catching fish.
They passed the bottle back and forth, talking until the child’s eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep upon the map. At that point, Gabriel picked him up and carried him back to his bedroom, laying him carefully across the mattress and tucking the blankets up to his chin.
“I’m not your dad,” he whispered, smoothing back those sunlit tangles and pressing a gentle kiss between his eyes. “But I wish I was.”
He stared a second longer, then closed the door carefully and wandered down the hall to his own room, surprised to see Natasha still lying awake in bed. She’d been eavesdropping until the guilt became unbearable. At that point, she decided to wait for him instead. For the last several weeks, they’d been having a rather delightful time ‘practicing’ for the night of their wedding, but despite the cozy glow of the lamps, she was wearing flannel pajamas, chilling out in the center of the bed.
He took off his shirt and curled up beside her, letting out a tired sigh.
“He was drinking the tequila? You let him drink alcohol?!”
He shook his head with a faint smile, turning off the lamp. “He was drinking the mix.”
THE NEXT DAY CAME BRIGHT and early. Too early for Gabriel’s tastes.
He rolled over with a groan, lifting a hand to protect his eyes from the stabs of light coming in from the window, only to end up face-planting in a piece of paper on the other side of the bed.
He peeled it off slowly, blinking as he tried to read.
Taking Jase to get fitted for a tux. Remember to drop off those papers.
...should we just elope?
He chuckled to himself, crumpling it into a ball.
Ironically enough, he and Natasha had discussed the idea of elopement before. When he’d proposed, he’d been taken with the idea of a lavish party—all the flourishes and frills. Then he’d performed a quick internet search and discovered exactly how many flourishes and frills there were.
By the time he realized his mistake, he’d already asked Molly for assistance, and there was no putting that particular cat back in the bag. If ever the ‘E-word’ was uttered within ten blocks of her presence, there would be an ominous knocking and she would inexplicably appear at the door, eyes flashing with preemptive fury, like some kind of urban witch.
That’s why Tasha wrote it down.
He tossed the paper into the trash, resisting the urge to swallow it, and wandered aimlessly down the hall—stretching out his battered arms with a yawn. Devon might have narrowly avoided the amputation of his fingers, but his wife could heal whatever injuries hadn’t managed to kill him with the slightest touch of her hand. Most days, Gabriel would jog across the street and insist she heal him as well, but some wary instinct told him to avoid that particular house for a little while.
The adrenaline from the mission had worn off as he slept, and there was something about a quiet morning that brought all those pesky realities he’d been avoiding back into light.
He had failed a mission. He had actually failed.
Truth be told, a part of him couldn’t get over the shock. He might not have been thrilled with his assigned partner, but there had never been a doubt in his mind as to whether he and Devon would succeed. They would argue, they would throw a few punches. But they would never fail.
His eyes drifted to the window, resting on the house across the street.
Go over and talk to him. You’ll need to debrief, anyway—
He silenced the voice as quickly as it started, unable to imagine the cognitive dissonance that would be required for such a thing. If it wasn’t the crushing blow to his ego, it was the basis of the argument itself. He understood the other side. He understood the necessity of thinking in broader terms and preparing for darker eventualities. But he couldn’t reconcile the passivity in the moment.
“He was a monster,” he murmured, staring at his own reflection. “He needed to die.”
The voice switched tracks.
Finish those papers.
He let out a weary sigh, tying back his hair.
Finish those papers was a phrase he’d been looping for what felt like the better part of several lives. It was hard enough to get a legal marriage license in the country of England—a lesson he’d recently learned from his little sister—let alone to wade through the bureaucratic insanity that went along with adopting a child. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the necessary paperwork—he had all the papers, and all the certifications, in all the countries he could possibly require.
