Gabriel

I slam the tray on the oriental side table. “Reagan?” Rage fills my veins. It blends with my uneasiness as the clatters of the fork and plate waft through the air. “Reagan, where are you, baby?” Something heavy sits on my chest and strangles my throat. “Reagan?”

Silence answers me, and it almost feels like it’s laughing at me.

I check under the comforter even though I can see there’s nobody under it. I check the wardrobe, bathroom, and then under the bed.

It’s quiet like I’m in the eye of a hurricane. My chest feels hollow. My surroundings feel like a void.

I stand under the crystal chandelier and roam my eyes over the bedroom once again. Nothing.

No, there’s something weird. The comforter is dry, and the folded blanket lies across the foot of the bed like nobody has used it.

I move back, turn around and run downstairs, bouncing off Michael. “Where is she?” My voice has a high-pitched crack.

“You okay?” Michael looks at me like I’m some lunatic.

“Where is she?” I growl, fury burning inside me.

Michael’s face turns into a rigid mask. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“She has red hair. Red, Michael, red… like flames.”

He grins, confusion flickering in his eyes, and he scratches his head. “Ninne has red hair.”

“Ninne has orange hair. Reagan has red hair. Beautiful red hair.” I grip his shoulders like I’m going to shake him. “I carried her over to my room.”

Michael pulls back, shoving my hands off his shoulders with his hands. “You used the void two days ago, you fucking dick. We don’t use it in the bar. Or anywhere else. Or ever.” He slams his fist on my chest. “There was no human in the bar, fortunately. And where the fuck have you been?”

He’s fucking crazy.

“Are you drunk?” I growl.

“Are you drunk?”

“Fuck off.” I pull forward and tumble out of the bar as Michael’s furious growl chases me. “Reagan,” I call out to her.

Nothing. The harshness of the pristine landscape stretched around the clubhouse is almost crushing. There are moors behind the manor, old trees, and two narrow ribbons of uncultivated fields with broken fences in the opposite direction. The cold air fills my lungs as I sweep my eyes over the ground covered with patches of low vegetation of a dark green colour with grey and purple spots and then over the ragged edge of the cliff in the distance.

“Regan,” I call out to her once again.

A bird’s twitter answers me. A gust of wind smacks me as the leaves of the old tree rustle. The sky is dark, ominous like the first ocean formed on earth. The ash clouds drift like silent specters. I circle the clubhouse until the moon appears in the sky. It shines silver. As cold silver as frost that layers the lawns on an autumnal morning.

Is Reagan a ghost?

No, that’s not possible. I’d sense her aura if she was a ghost. They feel like ashes that have cooled down. Reagan feels fresh and joyful. So fucking mysterious I can’t grasp it.

I circle the clubhouse three times. I check the garage and the shed and then I walk along the rough edge of the cliff. The wind blows in my face. Salt pricks my lips and the smell of seaweed settles in my nostrils. I sweep my eyes over the beach that stretches below from where I’m walking. My perfect eyes would notice Reagan if she was there. It’s late, but I can see everything as clearly as an early morning. I can see far, yet I can’t see her.

I return to the clubhouse and go behind the bar counter to grab two bottles of vodka. I need to get drunk or I’ll go mad. I need to kill this need inside me, this yearning, this insanity. As I walk towards the stairs, Ninne obstructs my way.

“Hey, why so brooding tonight?” Ninne asks as she strokes my arm with her soft hand. She is our bartender. “Gabriel? I can help.”

“Take your fucking hand off me,” I say.

Ninne’s chin trembles as her eyes fill up with tears. She falls to her knees and shakes like an animal that’s facing death.

“Forgive me, Gabriel,” she sobs. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

Silence layers the bar and all eyes fix on me. Yes, I can be intimidating. The nymphs who work in our bar know the rules, and we treat them well—they provide us with the holes to fuck after all.

No fucking need to scare them.

Fuck that. The damage is done. Ninne will get over it.

Tonight, I’m damn very not in the mood. Tonight, they’re all repulsive to me. Tonight, I only want to enter my room and find out that Reagan’s sitting on my bed.

“To the office,” our president, Raphael, says as he juts his chin out towards me.

I salute him, and we go to the basement. The heavy door with an ornate handle behind the stairs opens into the elevator. It’s a vintage elevator with rich golden details and a gothic-style panel. We go down as a swish accompanies us. The elevator stops. Raphael is the first to walk out. Moving along the stone wall, I drink vodka straight from the bottle and kick the beer cans scattered across the wooden floor. Yep, we’re filthy bastards, and the nymphs have no access to this part of the basement, so it gets dirtier with each year that passes. Sometimes, Cael is so pissed off with the trash in here that he’ll tidy it up.

The boards screech under my feet. Raphael slows down, so I catch up with him. We stop in front of an ornate double door, and he whispers the incantation that secures our office. This part of the basement is separated from the one with three rooms that accommodates washing machines, fridges, and liquor cabinets. There are also three guest rooms, each of them en-suite, that we use only on rare occasions. There is also a ‘special guest room’—a cell to be precise.

We walk into the office, and I drop into the armchair with red velvet upholstery. Raphael leans against the stone wall, two posters with naked women above his head. He scratches his head and clears his throat. His curly ginger hair is always styled according to the latest trends. He wears jeans, black boots that he polishes every day, and white shirts. And his cut.

“Any problems with the assignment?” he asks, his green eyes shining like two tropical seas.

“Nope.”

“I can give you Uriel.”

“I can manage by myself, Prez.”

He nods as he tosses his hair back, and his eyes shoot lightning towards me. “You used the void—“

“I didn’t.”

He looks at me like I’m a lunatic. “Everybody—“

“I didn’t use the fucking void.”

The void is a timeless space we can use to travel fast, but to humans, it looks like we’ve vanished.

We don’t use it nowadays. We don’t want to.

Raphael puts his hand on the back of his neck. “Alright. You didn’t use the void.” He nods several times. “Go get drunk. And maybe have some sleep.”

“I’m fine, Prez.”

“Get a good sleep. President’s order.”

“Aye, Prez.”

“The girls deserve respect.”

“I know.”

“You fuck them and trash them, so at least be nice to them, or there’ll be nobody to cook and clean for us.”

“Aye, Prez.”

“It’s good to have a nice woman to warm your bed.”

“Only my wife is allowed to warm my bed.”

Raphael grins. “You’ve always been either black or white.”

I salute him and go to my bedroom. No woman has ever been allowed into my bed. I fuck them in the guest room, or in the attic. My bed is only for my wife. Funny, I never planned to marry anyone.

As I enter my bedroom, my heart stops beating, and something strangles my throat. Reagan is not sitting on my bed. She should be fucking sitting on my fucking bed and enjoying the meal. She fucking isn’t.

I add a few twigs into the fire that’s burning in the marble fireplace, and I sit down on the floor below the sash window. Ninne must have cleaned up my bedroom because the fresh scent of detergents lingers in the air and the net curtains are a bit damp like they were washed an hour or so ago.

That makes me think. I am an ungrateful dick. Maybe Reagan sensed that dickness from me, and she decided she didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

I empty one bottle of vodka within an hour, big gulps as the alcohol burns down my throat, and then another one within two hours. President’s order.

Maybe I am crazy.

Maybe I’ve imagined her. She’s perfect. Too perfect. My perfect little dream.

The world blurs around me. The heat from my stomach diffuses into my veins and cuts me off from reality.

My phone wakes me. I open my eyes and realise I’m lying on the floor, two empty bottles at my feet. The bedroom is cold as fuck. I scramble to my feet and take the phone out of the back pocket of my jeans. It’s Detective Evelyn Smith.

“What?” I growl.

“I need to have a word with you,” Evelyn says in a matter-of-fact tone. “53 Simona Road, as always.”

“I’ll be there in two hours.”

“See you in two hours then.” Evelyn’s voice has a soft tinge.

“See you.”

I disconnect and shove the phone into the pocket of my cut. I kick off my boots and step into the bathroom that’s next to my wardrobe. I have a shower, brush my teeth and put a fresh t-shirt and a pair of jeans on. Grabbing my cut, I slip into my boots and walk out of the room.

As I enter the bar, I see Ninne wiping the bar counter with a dampened cloth.

“You okay?” I ask.

The sun’s rays filter into the bar and paint the floor with rainbow colours. A thin layer of dust lies on the windowsill.

Ninne’s eyes rise to me. Hope wavers in her glance only to fade the next moment. “Yes, I’m fine. You okay?”

I shrug. “As always.”

“You’re not as always.” She sighs. “You are… never mind. Find a new bartender. Sorry.”

“No, don’t worry. That’s fine. Anyway, good luck.”

“Good luck to you too.”

I wave my hand to her as my goodbye and exit the bar. Ninne is burned out as are all of them sooner or later.

I walk over to my bike and see Cael sitting on his. He nods at me and starts the engine. I sit on my bike, and we pull forward. We part, and I roar towards the motorway.

Two hours later, I park my bike in front of a half-burned warehouse. To my left are two piles of tyres. To my right are distorted bushes. My eyes travel to Evelyn leaning against the driver’s door of her car. Her asymmetric lips curl into a smile. She walks towards me as an A4 envelope waves in her hand. The wind ruffles her shoulder-length blonde hair as she stops in front of me and passes the envelope to me.

“Two more,” she says. “The latest one in Rochdale. Can you check it out?”

“Sure. Another ex-convict?”

“Yeah, another sex offender.” She sweeps her hair away from her face. “Looks like we’ve got a serial killer with a sense of justice.”

Yes, each time I can sense a demonic motherfucker at the crime scene. They collect evil souls—they just do their job. Our paths never cross.

I’ll sometimes kill Lilith’s bastard, but that’s a rarity now. The demons’ numbers are on the decline these days.

Evelyn shoves her hands into the pockets of her trench coat. “We’re desperate. Use your hocus-pocus and give me something.”

“I’m a respectable psychic, Evelyn. It’s not hocus-pocus. It’s science.”

She doesn’t know who I really am. She thinks I’m a psychic with a license to practice. We meet up in front of this warehouse when she has a difficult case, and the police are helpless. I’ll help her and then she’ll help her colleagues, keeping her mouth shut about her source of information—nobody knows about our cooperation. We see each other at crime scenes sometimes, but we’ll never talk to each other then.

I used to help the previous detective and the one before him—Evelyn’s father and grandfather. She and I met in our bar for the first time. We had a few drinks, talking about my psychic abilities. We ended up in the attic in the room with red walls and a few useful toys. She took my phone number and called me five months later. I regard her as a very open-minded and interesting human, but I’ve never felt a spark, that’s all.

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes, and then looks at me. Her irises shine blue-green as one of her thick eyebrows crooks up. “Just give me something.” Her face softens. “When you’re back from Rochdale… maybe we could have dinner together or something?”

I’ve always liked our dinners because after the meal, Evelyn always invited me to her house for a session, or two, of good rough fucking. There have been five dinners so far. I like her—she has a good sense of humour and high IQ. I like women. I like fucking them. I never fall in love with them. Nothing wrong with that.

I can’t even tell whether Evelyn is my type or not. There’s always something interesting about the women I meet. Evelyn’s face has an interesting asymmetry in her lips and eyebrows. I don’t have a favourite type.

No, I didn’t have a favourite type. Now, Reagan is my type.

“Maybe,” I say as I jump on my bike.

I roll the envelope and put it into the inside pocket of my cut as Evelyn’s confused eyes slide over me. She’s a very attractive thirty-five-year-old woman, but I don’t want to touch her even with a five-foot long pole. Fuck me. I think I’ll never ever touch her again. She is repulsive to me.

Right. I liked fucking women. It seems like it was in my previous life. Now, my hallucination is my every erotic fantasy.

“You’re busy, huh?” Evelyn says.

“Yes, very busy.”

She nods and flashes me a neutral smile, but her right eye twitches, revealing her disappointment.

“I’ll stay in touch,” I say.

She raises her hand and waves it in response.

My bike shoots forward.

I want only Reagan now. I want to have her naked, beneath me, so that I could sink my dick into her, balls deep. I want to fuck her hard and fast, make her scream with pleasure, make her beg for me to give her more.

Even thinking of my little redhead causes my dick to grow hard. I almost crash into a truck. Not that it could harm me or something. I’m invincible. The Fallen could kill me, but we’re kind of in one team now.

As I reach the suburbs of Rochdale, I stop and pop into a supermarket. I grab a tri-pack of toothbrushes, two tubes of toothpaste, two bottles of shower gel, a two-pack of t-shirts, and four packs of crisps. I have a burger in a nice café, and then I check-in to a cheap hotel. I like being like a human sometimes. I like doing tiny human things—like buying three toothbrushes instead of one or sleeping in cheap hotels.

Stretching my body out on a double bed that screeches with my every movement, I take four photos out of the envelope that Evelyn gave me. They’re four shots of a male body with his throat ripped out. There are also the directions to the crime scene in the envelope. I read them and memorise them. I put everything back into the envelope.

I leave the hotel room and walk over to the crime scene. A long piece of yellow police tape encircles a square area behind an old cinema building. A line of trees stretches on my left while a rock formation marks the beginning of a path that leads to where five fishing boats are moored.

Ash clouds have gathered in the sky like an ominous warning, and the wind causes the leaves to rustle. My nostrils fill with the smell of the victim’s blood. I can hear his screams and gurgles. I can sense his fear. But I can’t sense the motherfucker who killed him fifteen hours ago. The police must have finished their job only a few minutes ago. There’s nobody here, but the smell of human sweat still lingers in the air. The echoes of their conversations still linger in the air. The blood of the victim seeps into the cracked asphalt.

Droplets of rain settle on my head and then a few on my hand. I move back and sit down on a wooden bench. My eyes sweep over a cliff that profiles in the distance. I see a medieval church and a few white houses. The rain grows in strength.

“Where are you, Reagan?” It comes out of my mouth involuntarily. I shake my head and put my elbows on my lap. Water trickles down my temples and along the bridge of my nose. The wind howls and dances like a wild madness. Then it’s quiet. “Reagan, baby, come back to me.”

“Gabriel.”

I jump to my feet and turn around. I see Reagan standing on the path. Her white dress is drenched as is her hair. The wind smacks her and she crosses her arms over her breasts.

“Where have you been?” I growl.

Her eyes widen, and she steps back.

“No, Reagan, don’t go anywhere, baby.” I step towards her, but she steps back. “Regan, sweetheart, it’s me, Gabriel,” I say as gently as I can manage. “Come here.” I extend my arm and wave my hand. “Come here, sweetheart. We need to dry you, huh?”

My heart pounds in my chest and fear strangles my throat that she’ll disappear again. No fucking way will I allow her to leave me again.

Reagan beams at me and moves closer to me. Relief washes over me. I’ve never felt this relieved in my life. I’ve felt the inkling of this emotion maybe once or twice in life—when Raphael founded our club, and when I became the club’s enforcer. Each of us wanted to be an enforcer, so I was lucky and relieved, I guess.

I pull Reagan into my arms and kiss the top of her head. She feels so real in my embrace, her body so beautifully soft and tiny against mine. I grip her waist and lift her off the ground. Her arms wrap around my neck as her legs encircle my waist.

I’ve never been this happy in my life. Yep, I want to hold this drenched tiny chick in my arms for eternity.

“I wanted you to stay with me,” Reagan whispers into my ear, her warm breath sending heat to my dick. “But you left me.”

“I’m here. I’ll stay with you, I promise. Just don’t go anywhere, okay?”

I feel like I’m drunk with her closeness. Fucking hell. She’s my little treasure, my gem I want to protect at all costs.

She buries her face in my neck, and her warm breath causes an electric current to run down my back. Her body shivers against mine as I carry her over to the hotel.

I kick the glass door open and pass a receptionist who widens her eyes, but says nothing.

I walk into my room, cross it, and enter the bathroom. I sit Reagan on the toilet. Her teeth chatter together, and she shakes as though the temperature has dropped to minus ten Celsius.

“We need a hot shower, right?” I say.

Euphoria clouds my mind. My baby girl is with me, and I will never let her go.

I shake off my cut and kick it towards the corner by the door, and then I pull my t-shirt over my head and toss it onto the beige tiled floor. As I start removing my jeans, Reagan chuckles and covers her eyes with her tiny hands. I step out of my jeans and kick them aside. I move closer to Reagan, my cock rock-hard. A drop of precum emerges from the tip of my shaft.

“Take that drenched dress off, Reagan.”