Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 5

The Ghost dropped into a crouch, bringing himself level with the snitch. His voice was forceful, full of menace. "Jimmy, where can I find Gideon Reece?"

The snitch wouldn't meet his gaze. His eyes flitted nervously from side to side. For a moment the Ghost thought the other man might p.i.s.s himself.

"Jimmy, I'm going to count to five. One, two, three-"

"Okay! Okay! There's something going down tonight. Across town from here. I don't know the details, but they're doing over some doctor. Over on Suffolk Street. Reece will be there."

The Ghost stood. Suffolk Street. He could be there in ten, fifteen minutes. He glanced at his watch. A quarter after eleven. He hoped he wasn't already too late. He looked down at the sniveling wretch by his feet. "Clean yourself up, Jimmy. You owe it to yourself."

He stepped over the slumped figure, pulled open the door, and left. Behind him, Jimmy the Greek let out a long, whistling sigh of relief.

The Ghost dropped down onto the iron rungs of an external fire escape that clung, limpet-like, to the side of an apartment building. It was similar, in many ways, to the building from which he had just come, but this part of town was considerably more affluent than the neighborhood where Jimmy the Greek made his home, and the buildings and streets had been maintained to a far superior standard.

He'd come across the rooftops again, using his propulsion jets to help him make the leaps where needed. He didn't yet know what he was looking for. A doctor. He wished now that he'd pressed Jimmy for a name, but in truth he suspected that the snitch wouldn't have known the details of the hit; he wasn't high enough in the pecking order to be trusted with information like that. In fact, he'd probably only picked up the details he did have from another goon who didn't know how to keep his mouth shut.

The Ghost crouched on his haunches in the darkness, surveying the street for any signs of life. His goggles overlaid his vision with tiny blinking readouts and washed everything with a warm, red glow. A couple of pedestrians pa.s.sed beneath him, and he adjusted his lenses, focusing in on their faces. A man and a woman, out for a late-night stroll. Civilians. People in love. He felt a sudden stab of jealousy. Some days-most days-he wished he could lose himself in that same, blissful ignorance in which most of the city's population breezed through their days, unaware of what was truly happening around them, of the lurking danger that bubbled just beneath the surface of their lives. To most of them, he was one of the monsters, a myth of the city, a creature that lived in other people's nightmares but would never touch their own. They thought of the mob in the same way. Let it happen to other people. We'll be alright. It won't affect us. He supposed that was for the best. Better that they lived their lives in ignorance than fear.

A car engine roared up ahead. The Ghost s.h.i.+fted his position so he could see. No headlamps. It could have been any one of the three parked vehicles across the street. He toyed with his goggles, trying to get a closer look. Too late, he saw the column of steam release from the rear of one of the cars, and then two men appeared from the doorway of one of the apartment blocks, crossed the sidewalk, and opened the rear doors of the vehicle. Both men were wrapped in heavy winter overcoats, but there was no mistaking one of them: Gideon Reece. He was tall, thin, and carried himself with an immaculate, graceful air. His hands were held in a thin steeple before his chest, and even from high up on the side of another building, the Ghost could see that the uppermost half of his left ear was missing. The other man was unfamiliar to him: a goon, or else another of the Roman's deputies.

The men ducked into the car, and the Ghost, leaping into action, swung down from the fire escape, taking the steps five, six at a time, dropping the last ten feet and crunching onto the graveled courtyard a few seconds later, his trench coat billowing out around him like long, unfurling petals.

He'd been too slow. The car was already speeding away from the curb, heading toward him, its headlamps still dimmed so as not to draw attention. He thought about trying to give chase, about leaping onto the hood as it sped past, but he knew it wouldn't get him anywhere, except perhaps a wooden box, six feet beneath the churchyard in his home town. He watched as the vehicle rushed by, sputtering as its furnace consumed coal from the hopper, superheating the water tank that fed steam to the paddles. And that was when he noticed the third exhaust funnel, rising out from the back of the vehicle like a finger, pointing at the stars. He smiled beneath the brim of his hat. A third funnel. He'd never seen a motor car with a third funnel. It was clearly there to compensate for some modification that had been made to the engine, most likely to increase the capacity for extra torque and speed, to help Reece extract himself from any threatening situations as quickly as possible. But now he had a means of finding Gideon Reece again. It was a needle in a proverbial haystack, of course, but if he could find the car with three funnels, he could find Gideon Reece. And if he could find Gideon Reece, he was sure he could find the Roman.

The Ghost watched the vehicle recede into the distance, swallowed by the impenetrable night. Then, turning toward the building from which he'd seen Reece and his crony emerge, he crossed the street. He didn't know what he was likely to find inside, but if there was any chance he could save the doctor, he had to take it.

The lobby door was still hanging open where it had been forced by the mobsters, the lock smashed, the hinges partially wrenched from the frame. Inside, an electric bulb was swinging chaotically on its wire, causing the light to take on a bizarre stuttering effect, as if the room beyond was dipping in and out of existence, there one minute, gone the next.

The Ghost stepped through the opening, flicking the lenses up from his goggles so that his eyes could better adjust to the harsh electric light. The lobby was small; a mailbox, marked with the names and numbers for each apartment, a garbage bin, a door leading off to the first-floor apartments, and a staircase leading up to the floors above. The decor was plain and modern: magnolia walls and red tiles. But it was clean, and, he imagined, a rather expensive building to inhabit.

The Ghost approached the mailbox. It stood against the wall near the foot of the stairs, a series of small wooden cubbyholes, ready to receive the residents' mail. Some of the part.i.tions were stuffed half-full of unopened letters and packages of various shapes and sizes. Each one was labeled with the name of the occupant and the apartment number. He scanned the names on the top row, and then began working his way down the rows, one cubbyhole at a time. About halfway down, right in the middle of the third row, was a name that immediately stood out: Dr. Henry Sinclair, Apt. 11.

The Ghost quickly counted off the apartments. That would be on the third floor. He rushed to the stairs, taking them two at a time, and sprinted across the landing toward the doctor's apartment. He hadn't misjudged it: the door was open, light bleeding out onto the dimly lit landing. Cautiously, he edged inside.

If he'd had any hopes of getting there in time to save the doctor, those hopes were dashed by the sight that confronted him when he pa.s.sed along the hallway of the apartment and into the living room. It was perhaps one of the most disturbing sights he had ever seen, certainly since the war. Surrounded by opulence-bright, colorful works of art, elaborate furniture dating back to the last century, a chandelier, a bookcase filled with fine bindings-was the doctor himself. He'd been stripped naked and positioned in a chair beside his desk. One hand rested on the arm of the chair, and his legs were crossed, his feet situated carefully on a blue and white rug. His head had been cleanly removed, leaving a b.l.o.o.d.y, oozing stump, and was now tucked beneath the other arm in a grotesque parody of a headless spirit, carrying its burden into the afterlife. The face was frozen in a rigid expression of terror, the lips curled back in a horrifying scream. Over the eyes had been placed two s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s coins, as if in bizarre tribute to some demonic spirit.

The stench was foul; the iron tang of blood filled his nostrils and throat with its cloying scent, making it difficult for him to breathe. He stood for a minute, unable to take his eyes from the grisly diorama that faced him. After a moment, he realized what was wrong with the scene. The head had been removed, cleaved off with a clean blade, but there was no sign of any blood, other than that still seeping ponderously from the wound itself, dripping onto the milky-white flesh of the doctor's chest.

The Ghost decided to search the apartment. The murder must have been committed in another room, and then the body deliberately moved to its position in the living room, probably even cleaned up before being displayed. He repressed a shudder. He had the terrible sense that Gideon Reece had enjoyed his work that day, had sought and found some sort of appalling thrill in what he'd done to this Dr. Sinclair. He had to be stopped. Not simply because of his connection to the Roman, but because of his deadly s.a.d.i.s.tic streak, and because he wanted to lay his hands on Celeste.

After a few moments' pacing between rooms, he found what he'd been looking for. The bathroom was like a scene from an abattoir. The glistening white tiles had been decorated with a spray of dark arterial blood that covered nearly every surface: the walls, floor, ceiling-even spattered over the mirror above the sink. The bathtub itself was cracked and splintered where it had received a series of blows from a sharp implement, suggesting the doctor's head had been hacked off over the side of the tub. Supporting that theory, the Ghost could see two tools had been dumped in the bottom of the tub, a b.l.o.o.d.y machete and a hacksaw. They rested in a long puddle of sticky gore. It seemed much of the gritty substance had been swilled down the plughole.

Bloodstained towels had been discarded haphazardly on the floor, and puddles of water marked where the body had been washed down after the event.

The Ghost felt bile rising in his gullet. He wondered what the doctor had done to warrant such a vicious, deliberate reprisal from the Roman. Turning away from the scene of the butchery, he made his way back to the living room, where the body of the late doctor was still waiting for him in silent vigil. Grimacing, he crossed to the blue and white rug and stooped to examine the body. He'd heard, from news of the other murders committed by the Roman's men, that the coins were a calling card, both an admission of guilt and a terrible warning to those who might consider opposing the mob boss. Or else they were some kind of ritualistic symbol, placed over the eyes to appease the gatekeeper that blocked the way to the afterlife; compensation, of a sort, that would enable the souls of the Roman's victims to buy pa.s.sage into the spirit realm. The Ghost had heard talk that the coins were originals, too, real Roman currency, nearly two millennia old. But the coins in front of him didn't look like originals. They were far too pristine. All the Roman coins he'd seen displayed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art had darkened and oxidized over time, or else had been damaged by the years they had spent in the soil, turned over by plows, struck by spades. These, though, looked as if they had hardly been touched, as if they had only recently been minted. He reached out and gingerly prized one of them free, turning it over in his gloved fingers. It had to be a replica. If not-if they were real-they must have cost the Roman a fortune. He knew where he could find out. He'd ask Arthur. Arthur would know.

There was a shout from out in the hall, followed by the patter of footsteps coming into the apartment. The Ghost stiffened. He drew back from the corpse, just in time to see a man burst into the room.

The Ghost could tell immediately that the newcomer was a police officer. He had that look about him: haunted, exhausted, but like a dog on the trail of a fox, full of adrenaline and spoiling for a fight. The man was dressed in an immaculate black suit, with a crisp white collar and a black overcoat. He was wearing a porkpie hat, and had an automatic clasped in one hand, which he was pointing in the Ghost's direction. He looked as if he were trying to suppress the shock he was feeling at the sight of Dr. Sinclair's naked, desecrated corpse.

"Hold it!" The man barked the command. The Ghost backed away, holding his hands out so the detective could see that he wasn't about to try anything. He wouldn't fire on a policeman, not even in selfdefense. But neither could he allow himself to be captured. Given the circ.u.mstances, they'd probably link him to Sinclair's death and hit him with a murder charge, and if not for Sinclair, then for the goons in the bank. Either way, he needed to get away, and fast.

He glanced around the room. The detective was blocking the only exit. There was a window in the south wall, looking out onto the street below. The curtains were pulled back, but the window was shut. He wouldn't have time to open it. He was making a habit of this. Sighing inwardly, the Ghost steeled himself and then made a run for it, charging toward the window and leaping at the pane of gla.s.s, his arms tightly folded around his face to protect it from the shards.

He heard a gunshot reverberate in the small room just as he collided with the gla.s.s. He plowed through, the window exploding into a thousand tiny splinters as his weight carried him forward, into the abyss.

And then he was falling, tumbling over and over as he plummeted toward the concrete far below.

onovan rushed to the window. The d.a.m.n fool would be dashed across half the street after a drop from this height. He knew he'd missed him with the shot: the pockmark in the wall spoke for itself. But there was no way he could have survived a fall from this height.

Most of the gla.s.s had gone with him when he'd punched his way through, leaving only a few ragged teeth protruding from the frame. Gingerly, so as not to slash his face on the fragments, Donovan leaned out of the window, surveying the scene below. Where he expected to see the broken remains of the man who had dived out-the Ghost, he supposed, judging by the look of him-there was nothing but an empty stretch of road. Confused, he looked up and down the sidewalk, trying to see if the man had miraculously managed to get up again after his fall, and was now making good on his escape. Again, the road seemed quiet. What had happened to the man? He'd watched him leap through the window with his own eyes, but he seemed to have suddenly disappeared.

Just as he was about to give up on the matter and attend instead to the murder scene, he heard a grunting sound from somewhere above his head. He looked up. There, pulling himself over the lip of the building, was the Ghost, powerful jets of flame spurting from canisters attached to the backs of his legs, propelling him upward. Donovan was impressed, despite himself. He raised his automatic, took aim.

"Don't move. I don't want to have to shoot you."

There was a commotion behind him. He realized that Mullins had arrived with some uniformed men. One of them balked at the sight of the corpse. Donovan didn't take his eyes off his prey.

The Ghost, clutching on to the side of the building, continued to haul himself over the edge, heading for the roof. He looked back, just before he tumbled out of sight, meeting Donovan's gaze with an unreadable expression.

Donovan pulled himself back through the makes.h.i.+ft opening and turned to Mullins. "To the roof. NOW!"

Mullins looked startled and out of breath, but he wasn't about to start arguing with the detective. He waved for two of the uniformed men to follow him and set off at a run, bolting down the hallway toward the stairwell. Donovan followed behind them, still clutching his automatic in his fist. He couldn't let this chance slip out of his grip. Couldn't let the Ghost get away. There was too much riding on it. His life, for a start.

It had been two days since his encounter with Gideon Reece, two days since he'd been offered that ugliest of ultimatums: take the Roman's coin, or forfeit his own life. He'd heard nothing since then, for all the crus.h.i.+ng anguish and insomnia he'd suffered. For all the fears he held for Flora's future. Nothing until today. And then today he'd received an anonymous tip-off, about half an hour earlier, that he might find "something of interest" at the home of Dr. Henry Sinclair.

The thought had filled him with dread. The caller hadn't revealed his ident.i.ty-put through a voice-only call, in fact-but he'd recognized the sinister tones of Gideon Reece on the other end of the line, had imagined him smirking as he delivered his smug message. As the man was speaking, Donovan had felt the cold fingers of fear clutching at his belly, a tightening in his chest. He knew what he was going to find down on Suffolk Street, and even though he'd rushed over in his police car, he knew he wouldn't be in time to save the doctor from his grisly fate. The call hadn't been made for that reason. Reece had no intention of allowing Sinclair to live. It was simply a warning for Donovan, a reminder that, if he didn't give Reece the answer he wanted in another two days' time, Donovan would likely end up the same way as the doctor before the weekend was out. It was a demonstration, an opportunity for Reece to show off. And it worked. Even now, Donovan was feeling dizzy with the horror of his situation. Then there was the Ghost. If he was tied up in this, there was no way Donovan was letting him get away without a fight. Whatever his role, whatever part he was playing in this macabre pantomime, he was the only lead Donovan had, the only glimmer of a way out of his situation.

All of this ran through his mind as he charged up the stairs behind Mullins. The sergeant was puffing and panting as he hit the uppermost floor and stepped aside to let the uniformed men take care of the door. Then they were all out on the rooftop, and Donovan was swinging his weapon left and right, looking for the roaring glow of the Ghost's propulsion units.

It was nowhere to be seen. He ran across the rooftop, cursing, the cold wind whipping his hair across his face. He followed the lip of the building all the way from the stairwell to the other end of the apartment block, his feet crunching on the loose chippings.

He was gone. The Ghost had disappeared, faded into the night like an apparition. Donovan shoved his weapon back into its holster with a sigh. He turned to Mullins, who was watching him from across the rooftop in the silvery-gray moonlight, waiting to see what the detective wanted him to do next.

"He's gone, Mullins. We're too late. Go and secure the crime scene. I'll follow you down in a moment."

The sergeant motioned to the uniformed men.

"Oh, and Mullins?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Find some d.a.m.n coffee whilst you're down there."

The portly man gave a brief nod and then disappeared into the brightly lit stairwell.

Donovan listened to the sound of their footsteps on the treads as they receded into the distance, m.u.f.fled by the howling of the wind. Then, desperate to find some sort of release, however small, he withdrew his packet of cigarettes and took out a smoke. He put the filter to his lips and pulled the ignition tab, causing a brief flare of lightand then nearly fell backward as he caught sight of the Ghost's pale face in the stuttering glare, only a few feet away, staring at him with intense interest.

Donovan went to reach for his weapon, but the Ghost shot forward and caught him by the wrist. The man had a grip of iron. His voice was quiet and gravelly. "Let's not worry about shooting each other just yet."

Donovan let his arm relax, and the vigilante released his grip. The detective took a long draw on his cigarette, and then regarded the other man with an appraising look. He was just as the descriptions had suggested: well built, mid-thirties, rugged. He was wearing a long, black trench coat and a fedora. Goggles were strapped to his face beneath the brim of the hat, but the lenses had been lifted, revealing his quick, darting eyes. It was hard to make out what color they were in the darkness.

Donovan flicked ash from the end of his cigarette, watching it drift away lazily on the wind. His heart was hammering in his chest. "Did you kill him? Sinclair?"

The Ghost smiled. "No. I didn't kill him. But I know who did."

Donovan nodded. "Are you working for them?"

The Ghost's expression was hard. "I'm working for the city. For the people of New York."

"I thought that was my job."

The Ghost snorted. "Well, do it better, then. Where were you last night when the Sensation Club was getting all shot up? At the bank the other night? Or when Sinclair was being butchered in his own bathroom?"

Donovan shrugged. "Where we you?"

"I wasn't here." The Ghost paused. "I was looking for Gideon Reece."

That name. Perhaps the Ghost could help him, after all. Donovan scratched absently at his wrist. "Did you find him?"

"He was here. He killed Sinclair. Then he left."

Donovan nodded again. "Seems we're all looking for Gideon Reece."

The Ghost shook his head. "We're all looking for the Roman. Reece is simply the means by whom we reach him."

Donovan sighed. "I've got nothing on him."

"You've got a murder."

"With no evidence. I can't do anything without evidence."

The Ghost laughed. "And there's your answer, Inspector. That's why you need me."

Donovan's cigarette had burned down to a blunt stub in his fingers. He dropped it to the floor, crushed it beneath his boot. When he looked up, the Ghost had disappeared. He turned on the spot, trying to ascertain where the vigilante had gone. He caught sight of him again, standing on the ledge that ran around the top of the building, his arms spread wide as if he were trying to catch the wind beneath outstretched, invisible wings. He turned back to look at the detective. "Three funnels. Find the car with three funnels, and you'll have your man."

And then he jumped, throwing himself into the air, dropping below the lip of the apartment block before suddenly rising again on a plume of s.h.i.+mmering flame.

Donovan watched as the vigilante swept through the air toward another rooftop across the street, and then the plumes of fire extinguished once more and everything was dark, save for a few shafts of silvery moonlight picking out the glinting aerials of holotube transmitters that pointed to the stars like so many upraised hands.

Donovan returned to the room with the corpse. His head was spinning. He still wasn't clear about what role the Ghost had played in proceedings here, but he was now sure of one thing-the vigilante wasn't working for the Roman. Whatever his faults, however brutal his methods, the Ghost was right. Donovan needed him. He needed a blunt instrument, someone prepared to do what was right, to fight the criminals on their own terms, without one hand always tied behind his back. He wished he had the same freedom.

He turned things over in his mind. The car with three funnels. The Ghost must have been referring to the vehicle used by Gideon Reece, the sleek, black, modern thing that Donovan had sat inside the other night. So the Ghost had worked out how to find Reece. But finding a single car in a city full of them-surely that was like searching for a needle in a haystack? No matter what modifications had been made, how different it was from the similar models that purred constantly along the city streets, the city was a big place, and Donovan didn't know where to begin his search. Even if he found Reece, he knew he'd never be able to get him for Sinclair's murder. The man was too clever for that. And he was coming for Donovan, too. Time was running out. He almost laughed aloud at the irony. He realized he was hoping, hoping that the Ghost, that vigilante he had just encountered on the roof, was going to save him, was going to get to Reece first, use whatever methods he deemed necessary to put an end to the man's reign of terror. He couldn't cross that line himself. But he could certainly turn a blind eye while the Ghost did.

Sighing, Donovan regarded the corpse. The poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. It was clear to him that Reece's motive in dressing the scene in such a manner was to ridicule the dead man, to remove any last vestiges of his dignity. To defile him. It had been the same with Landsworth. The message was clear: oppose the Roman and he will not only take your life, but your reputation, too.

Donovan thought it was just crude. There was nothing subtle about removing a man's head and posing his corpse in a chair, or throttling a hooker and wiping her lipstick around a dead man's p.r.i.c.k. It lacked finesse, for all its grotesque grandeur. It was barbaric, a punishment from another time.

He turned to see Mullins standing at his elbow, brandis.h.i.+ng a mug of coffee. He took it with a grateful smile.

"Have you noted, sir, that the body only has one Roman coin on its eyes? Perhaps we disturbed him when he was placing them?"

Donovan shook his head. "No, Mullins. There were two coins here. That vigilante, the Ghost, wasn't placing the coins on Sinclair's eyes. He was removing one of them."

Mullins gave him a quizzical look. His top lip seemed to twitch in thought. "So, you don't think the Ghost committed the homicide?"

"No. I think the Ghost is as keen to find the Roman as we are. He took the coin as evidence. He's searching for clues."

Mullins frowned and brought his steaming coffee to his lips. Behind him, the uniformed officers were talking in the hallway, out of sight of the grisly corpse. "So what you're saying, sir, is that by following the Ghost, we might be able to find the Roman."

Donovan grinned. Of course! "Now that, Mullins, is one of the best ideas I've heard in days." He liked Mullins. The man had insight.

Mullins gave an embarra.s.sed chuckle. "What I don't understand, sir, is what links the victims. They all seem to be upstanding members of society. Their deaths appear to be entirely random."

"Most likely they're just honest citizens who refused to take the Roman's bribes." Donovan knew he sounded weary. He took a long pull of his dark, oily coffee.

Mullins shook his head. "You've always told me, sir, to look for the link. The thing that binds the victims together. We need to find the common ground. There has to be something. We just can't see it yet."

Donovan shrugged. "I don't know, Mullins. I really don't know. A part of me suspects that's just wishful thinking, and a part of me desperately wants you to be right."

Mullins was stoic. "We'll find it, sir. The link is there. We just haven't looked in the right place yet."

Donovan glanced over at the screaming face of the dead doctor. "I hope you're right, Mullins. For all our sakes."

he Johnson & Arkwright Filament was a creation of miraculous proportions, or so Gabriel expounded to his guests as they lounged and splashed and caroused in the bubbling water, dressed in their swimwear even now, in the middle of November.

The Filament itself was a huge cylindrical bra.s.s stove that sat on the edge of the swimming pool. It was covered with complex dials and switches, and had a hinged bra.s.s door in its belly that allowed access to the furnace. Henry, earlier, had rolled up his sleeves and shoveled in sack-loads of coal, enough to heat the pool for at least a day, if not longer. The device belched black, gritty smoke from a wide funnel in its roof and extended two long, bra.s.s fingers into the water, over the lip of the pool. These filaments reached almost to the bottom of the pool itself, and through them, superheated liquid was pa.s.sed in a constant current, warming the surrounding water and causing steam to rise like a wispy veil from the surface, drifting away into the chill winter air.

It had cost Gabriel a small fortune, but he had been true to his word. He'd promised his entourage a November pool party, and that was what they were now enjoying.

Gabriel himself remained fully clothed. He was stretched out on a sun lounger on the veranda, soaking up the hedonistic atmosphere. He watched the mult.i.tudes of people swarming about by the pool, or frolicking in the water, while sipping his bourbon and casually smoking a cigarette. He saw Ariadne-poor, beautiful Ariadne-skulking with her clutch of girlfriends, casting furtive looks at Gabriel and Celeste, the latter of whom was propped in a deck chair beside him, watching him with an amused gleam in her eye.

The whole thing was ludicrous, he knew. But then, that was the point of it. That was the nature of the perpetual party, the veil he drew over his own life to prevent others from seeing in. He found it fasci nating that n.o.body should challenge him on such an outlandish idea. But no, the invitations had gone out and the people had swarmed; expectant, cheerful-some, perhaps, a little mystified. Yet they had accepted the notion without question, convincing themselves, and each other, that the masterful Gabriel Cross couldn't possibly conceive of having a bad idea. And so they had come, dressed in their bathing suits and carrying towels beneath their arms. It was a grand social experiment, and Gabriel knew that it proved something to Celeste, about the nature of his parties: that she was right. All those guests were trying to escape from something, and they blinded themselves to the reality of it in exchange for a moment of blissful ignorance. They wanted Gabriel to tell them how to have fun because they couldn't work it out for themselves. He loved that she hadn't made a point of it.

Celeste had recovered well from the shock of the other night. But he knew she wasn't sleeping. She'd stayed with him since the incident, allowing herself to be cajoled into moving in, at least until things had blown over. Or, as Gabriel realized, at least until she was able to live with herself again. That was the crux of the matter, he was sure. She'd killed two men that night, snuffed out the lives of two other people, and she detested the feeling of a.s.sumed G.o.dhood that the weapon had given her. She didn't want to be able to decide who lived or died. That wasn't her role to take. In her worldview, that was the domain of higher beings. Higher than her, anyway.

She recognized, of course, that she had acted only in self-defense, but nevertheless those actions had changed her. Something inside of her had broken. It was something Gabriel would never be able to repair, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did or said. He knew that himself, all too well.

Celeste had told him all of this in the small hours of the night, when the only sound was the rustling of the trees through the window, and the only warmth the press of her body against his, the touch of her breath upon his face, the thump of her racing heart as she went over and over and over what had happened. He hadn't asked her why, and she hadn't volunteered an explanation, either. He still had no idea why those men-those mobsters-had been so desperate to take her away from him, so intent on their purpose that they had turned over the club and murdered all those people. Gabriel knew none of those victims was innocent, but neither did any of them deserve to die, not like that. Not at the hands of those terrible monsters rendered from soil and clay and death.

Whether Celeste suspected any reason behind the Roman's attempt to kidnap her, he could only speculate. Yet he recognized within her a seed of discretion, a decision not to reveal that part of herself, not to him, not to the world. She was hiding something, withholding some secret that exposed her in some way, made her vulnerable, and she had chosen to bury it. She was tied up in something and she had chosen not to share it with him. He would have been a hypocrite if he'd expected anything else.

She turned to him, now, a wry smile on her lips. "You went to the city yesterday. I overheard you talking to Henry."

Gabriel accepted this as a statement of fact. He'd left her dozing on the sofa in the drawing room, resting at last, and had taken the car back to the city. He'd returned late that night. She'd been in bed, feigning sleep, as he'd slipped in quietly and curled up beside her. Later, when she'd woken, he'd been there to hold her as she wept.

Now, however, she had challenged him on his whereabouts, breaking the unspoken rule. He plumed smoke into the air, and turned to watch a couple by the side of the pool, holding hands as they jumped into the water together, crying out in delight like excited children. "Yes. I went into the city."

Celeste nodded, slowly. "You weren't-"