Gabriel

I wake up as the day is about to dawn. Weird, I must have been asleep for at least six hours.

I put my elbows on the desk and take a few deep breaths. The air is cold, suffused with the delicate smell of ash. The fire in the fireplace must have died a couple of hours ago. I open one of the books and start reading. A German monk wrote it five centuries ago, and I must admit the guy knew a lot but didn’t know anything about the motherfucker I want to catch and eliminate. Marinka, a river nymph, delivers breakfast as silent as a ghost. Her hair is light blue as her eyes shine cobalt. She is our cook.

She reanimates the fire and picks up the half-empty bottle of vodka. The twigs crackle as warmth touches the back of my neck. Marinka flashes me a pale smile and walks off. I finish reading the book and grab a fork. The meal smells delicious—eggs, tomatoes, three slices of toast and four sausages. I open another book. A philosopher wrote it—he lived in the Roman Empire while it was blooming. I hate reading books written in Latin, but the job must be done, so I’m eating while I’m reading, and three fat drops stain the pages. The philosopher’s descriptions of the vampire lore are very detailed, but there’s nothing useful about my scumbag.

Eight hours later, I go downstairs and drop onto the sofa. Marinka delivers dinner to my table as Tia perches on the armrest. Her red leather skirt shows off her slim thighs.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

“Gabriel, listen.” She sighs as her forehead wrinkles. “Maybe… we could… I don’t know, have this dinner together?”

I want her to go away. She’s pissing me off for some mysterious reason. Her hand travels to my head, and she sinks her fingers into my hair.

I grab her wrist and take her hand off. “I’m busy, Tia. Sorry.”

Anger blazes in my chest. I fucking want to be alone. Or with my hallucination. Yeah, my hallucination would do me good.

“If you wanted to talk or something, I’m here for you,” Tia says.

“I don’t need to talk to anyone,” I say.

Tia drops her head and walks off. Why are they all circling me like flies? I’m fucking not in the mood. I just want to do my job and get drunk.

I feel like I have needles beneath my feet. The hairs on my back rise. My heart starts racing. Coldness brushes against my cheek.

My eyes travel to the front door of the bar. Heat rushes up my chest as I see my mysterious redhead standing in the doorway, all drenched and trembling. Her little fists are white with a delicate greyish tinge and her lips are pale.

I rise to my feet, pushing the table. It scrapes against the stone floor. I stride towards my girl and stop in front of her. Her eyes rise to mine as her lower lip quivers. Pleads for my mouth to kiss it until it regains colour.

“Help me,” she says in a breathy voice. “Please.” She trembles even more and her teeth chatter together.

I lean towards her and scoop her tiny form into my arms. “I’ve got you, baby.” I kiss her wet, cold forehead. “You’re safe.”

She feels so weightless, so fragile against me. I stride across the bar and turn into the arched passage, and then climb the metal stairs and walk along the corridor. Five Victorian wall lanterns give it a dim magic aura like we’re in a medieval castle as my boots thump against the stone floor. Thin streams of water mark my way.

“Did you fall into a pool?” I say.

Her teeth chatter together even louder in response, and something squeezes my heart.

With my elbow pressing against the ornate door handle, I open the door and enter my room. I lay the cute little thing on my four-poster bed and perch on the mattress. The girl sits on her heels as the black bed throw wrinkles around her. I hear her sweet gasps and sighs.

“Cold, huh?” I say.

She bobs her head at me and shakes even more.

My eyes sweep over her breasts visible through the wet fabric of her dress; her nipples are so sinfully erect, so in need of my mouth. I want to caress them, bite them, lick them. My dick grows hard. My eyes meet hers. Her face is so innocent, her eyes as pristine as a mountain stream.

“You need to take that drenched dress off, sweetheart,” I say gently, “or you’ll end up with a very bad cold.”

She pulls at her dress, and removes it, and then passes it to me. My jaw drops open. My eyes roam over her perfect naked body. She’s really tiny and slim but has a round ass and beautiful tits. She’s a perfect little thing. My every dream personified.

I reach back for the blanket with my hand and throw it over her back, covering her tempting curves.

“I’ll get you a hot drink,” I say.

“Stay, Gabriel.”

“How do you know my name?”

She shrugs. My hand travels to her head, and I stroke her drenched hair. It’s thick and sleek to touch. Wonderful. So fucking mine. The girl chuckles as her hand rises and her tiny fingers trail a line down my cheek. She touches the tip of my nose and giggles. Fucking hell. She’s adorable. The cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“How old do I look to you?” She folds her hands as if praying and stares at me.

“Fourteen?” I wink at her.

She frowns and fucking hell, that makes her look so fucking erotic, my dick wants to jump out of my pants. “I’m an adult.” She averts her eyes, looking offended.

“Like hell.”

She looks back at me. “I’m an adult. I started to be an adult on the first day of the spring.”

“So you’ve been an adult only for fourteen days.”

“I am an adult.” Seriousness coats her voice.

“Eighteen-year-olds are still kids.”

She turns her face towards the window and snorts.

“Hey.” I hold her chin and turn her face to mine. I shouldn’t banter with her. I should make her feel… happy and safe. “I’m sorry. You’re a very young adult, alright? A kid to me, that’s all. I’m an old git.” I run my knuckles down her cheek and rub the moisture away with my thumb.

She still looks offended.

“Okay, you are an adult,” I say.

She nods, her eyes full of joy. Full of freedom that causes a delicate wave of uneasiness to spread over my heart. It’s so odd to talk with her. So… good.

I stroke her hair. “What’s your name?”

She flashes me a smile as she tilts her head and her eyes narrow. “You don’t know my name? You’re an archangel. You know everything.”

“How do you know that I’m an archangel?”

Nobody knows who we are, who we were, these days.

She takes my hand and puts it on her cheek. Her eyelids flutter, and she closes her eyes. “You know everything.” It’s a murmur like she’s a shallow river murmuring on a sunny day.

A name courses through my head. “Reagan. You’re Reagan.”

“Reagan,” she repeats after me, her voice melodious and so breathy I want to kiss her hard and make her gasp for air.

She opens her eyes. Her lips part, her teeth shining white, and I barely stifle the urge to kiss her. She is an adult, right? And I look only twenty-nine. Why wouldn’t I want to kiss her?

Why wouldn’t I want to fuck her? She’s sitting on my bed, naked under the blanket. She likes me, right? Wants me? She wouldn’t have come to me otherwise.

“I’ll get you a sandwich and a cup of tea,” I say, the last remnants of my rationality tearing through the divine haze in my head.

“Stay.” She threads her fingers through my hair. Her eyes gleam as she sweeps them over my wisps. “Your hair? As dark as soil. And your eyes? Green and dark. As dark as the forest.” She watches me like a curious child. “You like all the forests. I like them too.” She sticks her nose into my hair and inhales me.

“Are you from the forest?” I correct the blanket that’s sliding down, and then I grip her arms, so our glances meet.

I suspect she’s not a human, but I can’t sense what species she belongs to. Her aura is strange—shimmery and white. Almost like mine. Almost because it has an emerald edge just like the forest.

Reagan pulls at my hair as though I’m her toy. I plunge my hands under the blanket and grip her slender waist, planting her on my lap.

“Reagan, sweetheart, who are you?”

She doesn’t listen to me, occupied with touching my leather cut. The blanket slides down, so I pull it up. Her little fingers trail lines down the edges of my cut and then over the pockets. Every detail grips her attention—the buttons, sews, the patches of time burned on the leather. She touches the silver chain around my neck and smoothes a hand over the scar and tattoo on my right arm. Her hair tickles my neck. Her smell clouds my mind. A dark need grows inside me. I’m insane. I’m intoxicated. I grip the back of Reagan’s neck and tip her face up to mine. Her eyes widen as I run my thumb along her lower lip. Her long black eyelashes flutter. Her irises shine silver then icy blue. I rest my forehead against hers and breathe her in.

“Who are you?” I rasp.

“You know who I am, Gabriel.” Anger tinges her voice.

The sound of my name rolling off her tongue makes an animal out of me. I kiss the tip of her nose, and then I press my lips against hers. She sighs like a startled fawn. I part her lips with my tongue. She tastes delicious—like sin and purity, like darkness and light, like sweetness that belongs only to me. I hear her rapid heartbeat and she shivers against me. She feels like a hummingbird in my arms.

I tear my mouth off hers and see the confusion in her eyes. She’s panting and trembling.

“Reagan, I’m sorry,” I say as I pull her to my chest. Her frame is so tiny compared to mine. So… mine. “Let’s get you something to eat and drink.” I stroke her back up and down, then sit her on the bed and wrap the blanket around her. I rise to my feet. “Stay here.”

“Stay with me,” she pleads.

“I’ll be back in a minute, baby. Just stay here. A minute, okay?”

“Okay.” She averts her eyes and purses her lips.

My heart hammers in my chest, my mind hazy, as though I’ve had three bottles of angel moonshine within half an hour. I leave the room and go downstairs. Cael shoots me a strange glance as I bounce off him. His amber eyes widen as he threads his fingers through his unruly, dark blond hair that reaches down to his jaw. Rarely does he shave, so a thick beard covers his gob almost all the time.

“Move,” I growl.

“Calm down, man,” he says, pushing the sleeves of his red chequered shirt up.

I arc him and tumble into the kitchen.

Marinka beams at me as she rubs her palms against her flowery apron. All the nymphs live in the little house behind the clubhouse that was once a servants’ place. They never last for long—ten, twenty years at most. Then others replace them and stay until their dreams fade. Nymphs can love us. We can’t love them back. We can’t love women at all. Our solitary existence is the proof—five old gits trying to find a reason to get up every morning.

“Give me a sandwich,” I growl. “Or two. A glass of apple juice. No, a glass of orange juice. No, a cup of tea.”

She tilts her head as she watches me and confusion paints her face.

“Are you fucking deaf or what?” I growl.

She shudders as her head drops. She opens the fridge and puts my order on a silver tray.

“Where do you want me to deliver this to?” she asks in a faltering voice, her eyes glassy, pupils wide with fear.

I tear the tray away from her hands. “Give it to me.”

My heart skips a beat as I rush upstairs. I kick the door open, walk into my room and freeze because I can’t see Reagan.