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  A sudden silence rang heavy in the room. Canary and Peter whipped around like they were watching a tennis match, waiting for Gabriel to say something of equal gravity. The three of them held their breath as he wracked his shell-shocked brain for something to say. Anything at all. In the end, what he came up with left a bit to be desired.

  “...I’m going to throw up.”

  WHEN GABRIEL WOKE UP a few hours later, he felt a lot better. The sun had already begun to dip down into the sky, and after several failed attempts he was able to pull himself to a standing position and limp his way down the hall.

  The flat, he realized, was just a room with a bed, in the back of what looked like a Chinese restaurant. He shuffled slowly past the kitchen and into the main dining room before Magda happened to see him.

  “Gabriel!” she said in surprise, rushing forward. “Here, let me help you! I’m sorry we weren’t there when you woke up. Peter didn’t think it would be for several more hours.”

  “That’s all right,” Gabriel said quickly, struggling to keep his balance. “You’ve both already been more than generous. I don’t...” He trailed off as an unfamiliar wave of gratitude rushed over him. “I don’t know what to—”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” Magda’s eyes glowed with passion as she wound his arm delicately around her own shoulder, helping him gently down the hall. “Gabriel, I already told you. I was there that day. I saw what you did. What you sacrificed.” Her face tightened with bittersweet emotion as she gripped his hand. “You’ve sacrificed enough.”

  Together, the two of them slowly made their way into the main dining room. It was empty, save for an old man who could see nothing but his soup, and she helped him down to a lone table against the opposite wall.

  “I’ll get you some food and water.” Her eyes scanned him up and down, taking in every drop of blood splattered across his bare chest. “Some clothes as well. With any luck, you and Peter will be about the same size.”

  “Please,” he caught her hand as she made to leave, “you don’t have to do that.” A self-conscious flush colored the tops of his high cheekbones. “I don’t have money here to pay you—”

  “Enough,” she said firmly. “You stay in this city long enough, Gabriel Alden, you’re going to have to get used to the fact that people here owe you. The least I can do is a shirt.” She disappeared down the hall, and returned just a moment later with a bowl of broth and some white rice. What looked like a server’s shirt was slung over her arm—apparently, she’d discovered that Gabriel and her portly husband weren’t nearly the same size. “This is the best I could do,” she said apologetically, holding it up to his chest to gauge the length. “If you stay with us a few days, I can go out and find something else—”

  “This is fine.” He hitched it painfully over his head, putting aside his ego and accepting quite a bit of her help. “Thank you, Magda—truly. And thank Peter for me, please.”

  She nodded, looking a bit overwhelmed, then left him without another word. He stared after her for a moment, hyper-aware of the fact that he was bleeding onto his new shirt, before he turned his attention to the food she’d left on the table.

  A few seconds later, every other thought had vanished from his mind.

  Maybe it was the fact that he was in a strange country and couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper meal, or maybe it was the fact that he’d been seconds from death. But a simple bowl of rice and broth turned out to be the best thing he’d ever eaten.

  He tried to pace himself—his training kicked in and a vague, disembodied voice cautioned him to take it easy—but it was no use. He inhaled the rice in less than a minute. The broth was soon to follow, though the pain soon became overwhelming and he had to slow down.

  After stealing a glass of water from the next table he settled back in his chair, sipping it slowly while trying to piece together the last twenty-four hours.

  His cell phone lay before him on the table, gleaming in the dim light. His eyes locked onto it as the glass trembled slightly in his hand. Magda had been carrying it in her pocket—she set it down before she left. Now, it posed the ultimate question.

  Should he call? Or shouldn’t he?”

  I can’t.

  The answer came back to him sure and swift. If Gabriel were to tell them what had happened...they would come for him. All of them. There would be no hesitation. They would get on the next plane. For all he knew, Carter would show up with an entire battalion. It wasn’t speculation—it was fact. To be honest, he was surprised that Julian hadn’t alerted them already.

  Surprised, but not surprised at the same time.

  If Stryder knew who Gabriel was, then he had surely heard of Gabriel’s famous friends as well. He would be taking advantage of the holes in the psychic’s vision. Acting on pure, deadly instinct. Leaving every sinister decision until the last possible second.

  His face darkened as he considered Stryder. Replaying the man’s final words in his head.

  The thing is, kid, I bet you wouldn’t have shown up here tonight if you’d actually known your dad. He gave you up. Practically gift-wrapped you—

  “Feeling better?”

  Gabriel lifted his head in surprise, breaking out of his trance as Canary took a seat across the table. She passed him a steaming cup of tea. “No...uh...I feel like I got shot in the chest.”

  She nodded wisely, taking a scalding gulp from her own cup. “That makes quite a bit of sense. Do you know why?”

  “Because I did get shot in the chest?”

  “Bingo!”

  An incredulous smile ghosted across Gabriel’s face. One that lingered as she snatched up his empty bowl, swishing it around to see if there was any more broth.

  “If you came here for an I told you so, you’re going to have to wait until I’ve stopped bleeding. As it stands, I could black out at any moment.”

  “There will be plenty of time for that later.” She patted him consolingly, taking care to wipe any transferred blood onto the leg of his jeans. “As it stands, I’ve actually come to give you something. Against all better judgement...”

  Without further ado, she reached into her purse and dropped Cromfield’s journal onto the table between them. It landed with a reverberating thud, one that echoed in silence as she stared at Gabriel and Gabriel stared at the book.

  “Peter found it lying beside you on the floor.” Her sharp eyes missed nothing as she studied his every reaction. “I thought I should return it to you. Maybe I was wrong.”

  Gabriel stared at it silently. Unwilling to touch it. Unable to let it go. “Did you read it?” he finally asked softly.

  “No,” she shook her head, “I didn’t think it was my place. But I can tell you without a shadow of doubt that the book is the root of all your problems. If you aren’t careful, it’ll be your ultimate undoing.”

  He didn’t run away this time as she warned him. Didn’t flinch or scoff at the fateful words. He simply lifted his head and looked her right in the eyes. A silent communication was exchanged. Uncompromising on both sides.

  “You really can’t let it go, can you?” she mused, reading his expression. “Even if it ends up killing you...you just can’t let it go.”

  Gabriel bowed his head, the crack of the gun still ringing sharp in his ears. His eyes locked on the journal for a fleeting moment before he slowly shook his head. “No. I can’t.”

  For a moment, all was still. Then, in a flash of color, she leaned across the table. All humor, and teasing, and ominous innuendo was gone as she stared fiercely into his eyes. “Why? I want you to tell me why.”

  Gabriel looked at her for a moment before his shoulders wilted with a quiet sigh. “It’s a long story—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “And, frankly, it’s none of your damn business.”

  “Gabriel.” Her hands clamped down over his, holding on with a strength that didn’t seem real, a strength that took his breath away. For a split second, he though
t she might slap him right then and there. But she didn’t. She simply held on, staring back with steady determination. “I’ve got all night...”

  Chapter 2

  Canary wanted the whole story?

  Well, that’s exactly what she got. The long, sordid tale.

  Never in his life had Gabriel opened up to someone to such an extent. Not to family, not to friends, not to Rae, and certainly not to a stranger. His instinct was to blame it on the immense blood loss, but a part of him sensed this ran much deeper. That, for the last few years, the story had been welling up inside of him—just waiting to be told. Once he started telling it, he found himself completely unable to stop. He hardly noticed when the restaurant closed and the last customer shuffled out the door. He scarcely perceived the two additional bowls of broth Canary discreetly slipped in front of him. He barely even paused as he drank them.

  No detail was left out. However trivial, however random.

  Of course, certain parts were harder than the rest. When he talked about his adolescent training, the first time he was sent out to kill a man, how he’d struggled as a child trying to raise Angel. When he talked about failing to pull the trigger on Rae and her friends, being sent back to deliver the letter, the subsequent torture that had followed...none of it was easy.

  Not for Gabriel.

  And not for Canary.

  Her eyes widened and watered to such an extent that, just a few minutes in, she looked like some horrorstruck cartoon. Hands clasped against her chest. Rigidly perched on the edge of her chair. Hardly daring to breathe as Gabriel got through the story as best he could.

  It was strange, the things he found himself sharing versus the things he didn’t. The anecdotes that leapt into prominence, and the ones he found himself glossing over almost entirely. The gathering of the world’s hybrids and training in Scotland, he summed up in about three sentences. But it was the little things that jumped to the forefront of his mind.

  The ratty stuffed fox Aria slept with. How Luke had become obsessed with surprising Molly with an anniversary trip to Rome. The way Julian was secretly dying to propose to Angel. How Gabriel didn’t fully understand the lease agreement on his old flat. Carter’s standing offer of employment. The way Beth baked him Christmas cookies every single year. He spent five whole minutes telling this strange woman how much his sister had wanted a dog.

  Devon’s revived relationship with his father. Rae’s childhood fear of goats. No stone was left unturned. He found himself offering details of other people’s childhoods, because he had none to offer himself. Volunteering their plans because he had no plans of his own.

  By the time he was finished, he was entirely depleted. The cathartic confession may have been a long time coming, but it had taken every bit of his strength along with it.

  “And then I woke up here,” he concluded abruptly. “Converted to some sort of aquatic mysticism, and ended up talking to you.”

  Canary didn’t say a word. She just stared down at the table. It took Gabriel a second to realize that it wasn’t simply a contemplative gaze; she was actually looking at the journal. His eyes flickered to it as well before zeroing in on her face. Every bit of conversational levity fell away as his voice grew abruptly serious, quiet as a grave.

  “Now do you understand?” he asked softly. “Why I can’t just let it go?”

  She was quiet for a long time. So long that Gabriel was half afraid that she thought he’d made up the entire story and was plotting to have him committed. But she didn’t. After another moment with her thoughts, she simply raised her head and nodded once.

  “I understand.”

  THE TWO DIDN’T SPEAK for the rest of the evening. Canary went out on a long walk, presumably attempting to digest the rather fantastical story she’d just been told, while Gabriel limped painfully down the hall to the living quarters and tried to take a shower.

  It was much easier said than done. Not only was he completely unable to raise his arms above his head, but every time he tried to pull in a full breath the room around him spun and another trickle of blood splattered down onto the tiled floor.

  “All right, healer.” He braced himself against the wall and, with delicate fingers, started rolling up his shirt. “Let’s see what you did.”

  ...not much.

  Gabriel’s chest rose and fell with quick, sharp breaths as he stared down at the open wound. It was squarely in the center of his ribs. Designed to inflict the maximum amount of damage. A beautiful shot, really. Not that he appreciated that beauty much right now.

  With a gasp of pain, he waved a hand slowly back and forth in front of the skin, letting his tatù see what his eyes could not. A second later, his eyes closed in relief. No bullet. Not even any metal fragments. At the very least, Peter had saved him from a grisly exploratory surgery. Now all he had to do was clean himself off, and stitch himself up.

  ...fan-freakin-tastic.

  The water flipped on and the room filled up with steam, but actually getting into the shower was another matter altogether. While Gabriel had managed to step out of his pants, no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t seem to lift his new shirt over his head. Several times, he was on the verge of simply ripping it off. But on each occasion, he reminded himself it was a gift, and he had no money to purchase another one. In the end, he was about ready to simply take a shower while wearing it, when there was a soft knock on the door and Magda slipped inside.

  “Hey.” Gabriel said in surprise, a little embarrassed to be seen by a middle-aged woman, in nothing but a bloody t-shirt and boxers. He glanced down self-consciously before noticing the puddles of blood on the steamed tile. “I’m sorry for the mess. I was just going to try to clean up a little, and then I’ll take care of it—”

  “Nonsense,” she dismissed without a thought, stepping forward and taking the bottom of his t-shirt gently in her hands. “Here. Let me help you.”

  He bit down on his lip, wincing as she delicately lifted it over his head, freezing perfectly still as she eased it down his arms. Under any other circumstance, he would have rather shot himself all over again than accept help from a stranger, but this woman was kinder than most. And Gabriel was hardly in a position to refuse help from anyone.

  There was a sharp intake of breath when she saw the wound, followed by a sympathetic grimace. “Peter didn’t do a very good job with that.” Gabriel looked up questioningly, and she gestured apologetically to the jagged hole in his skin. “Healing’s not really his strong suit.”

  Without another word, she reached beneath the sink and pulled out a wicker basket. After rooting around for a moment, she extracted a piece of gauze. A roll of tape, a pair of scissors, and a bottle of antiseptic were soon to follow. She grabbed everything she needed, took a step forward, then caught herself—glancing at Gabriel for permission.

  “May I?”

  His first instinct was to refuse. He’d already thought of at least five ways to disarm her the second she walked through the door. Even now, looking at her open arms, he eyed the scissors carefully and took a strategic step back. He didn’t know these people. He didn’t know where they came from, or what kinds of things they could do. More importantly, he had no idea why they were possibly being so kind to him. In his experience, kindness came with a price.

  Relax, man. She’s done nothing but help. Have a little faith.

  He nodded once, keeping her warily in his sights as she uncapped the bottle and poured a generous helping onto a towel. The sharp smell of alcohol rushed over them, and Gabriel’s body stiffened in automatic dread. She shot him a sympathetic look, and stepped forward.

  “You ready?”

  Gabriel clenched his teeth and nodded, bracing himself against the wall. The sting was overwhelming. As were the burning shocks of pain that followed. He instinctively turned his face away, pressing it into his arm to stifle a quiet moan.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, working as quickly and efficiently as she could. One hand sterilized the edges of t
he wound as the other followed along with another towel, mopping up any extra bleeding. “You’re through the worst of it. Just a few seconds longer.”

  He fixed his eyes on the ceiling and nodded again, trying desperately to distract himself from the pain. Finally, when he felt as though he could speak, he hazarded a tentative glance. “You certainly aren’t squeamish.”

  It was true. While Magda’s hands may have been covered with blood, never once did they falter as she fastened a temporary bandage around the wound. They were steady and sure.

  “I used to be a nurse,” she replied, stepping back to examine her work. “A few years ago, back before that madman threatened to rip our world apart at the seams, I worked as a trauma specialist at a hospital in the Bronx.”

  Gabriel looked at her in surprise. For whatever reason, that little piece of information relaxed him greatly. He took her hand without hesitation when it was offered again, even flashing a grateful smile as she helped him to the shower.

  “Do you want to leave those on?” she asked, pointing to his boxers.

  He glanced down with a faint blush and nodded. A second later she was steadying him as he stepped beneath the warm jets of water, closing his eyes in utter relief.

  “Not too long,” she warned, taking a step back but keeping her hand at the ready. “It’s only going to make you bleed more, and you can’t afford to lose any more blood.”

  Gabriel’s lips curved up in a contented smile as the water streamed through his golden hair, soothing his skin and relaxing his weary muscles, one by one. “Try and stop me.”

  She chuckled indulgently, placing a bottle of shampoo in his hand. He flipped off the cap, but couldn’t lift his arms enough to do much more than that. After a few pathetic attempts, she took it back and squirted a dollop into his hair with an almost maternal smile.

  “Very intimidating. You’re clearly at the top of your game.”

  He actually managed to laugh as the soap lathered and streamed down the sides of his face, growing steadily more crimson before finally spiraling down the drain. A part of him felt awkward that she’d decided to stay, but a more practical part was secretly glad. He didn’t trust himself not to lose balance, or black out right where he stood. He’d almost drowned once this week in a puddle. He didn’t need to add a stranger’s bathtub to that list.