Gabriel_Salvation Ghosts MC Read online

  “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.

  Chapter 3

  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 hea
d. “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.”