The church is silent with not a soul in sight. Outside, a car horn blares in the distance, but it doesn’t penetrate the bubble of peace that exists here. The presence of something more is unequivocal.

  Eden’s heels click over the ancient stone floor, echoing faintly from the colossal ceiling.

  “I don’t like churches,” Eden breathes.

  “Why not?” How could you not want to experience the utter tranquillity that comes from being in a church?

  She turns to face me and when she blinks, a single tear cascades down her cheek. “My mother died four years ago. My father died when I was eleven. The only times I’ve been in a church in the last ten years were for their funerals.” Such a young soul to have experienced so much hardship.

  “Was your mother religious?”

  She doesn’t answer immediately. “She believed in God, but not in the rules of any one religion. It was more of a spiritual thing. She believed in being kind to people and making the world a better place.” A soft smile forms on Eden’s lips. “The room brightened when she walked into it. We didn’t have much money, but she would have given her last penny to someone else in need. My mother was kind and good, and she died.” She swipes at the tears now trickling down her cheeks. “How could I believe in something that would take her away from me?”

  I take a seat on the front pew, and she tentatively sits beside me. “I had a sister once, Niamh. She died at two weeks old. At the funeral, the priest spoke. He said; We’re put on this earth, to learn, to become good people and purify our souls, so we may ascend to heaven and be with Him. Niamh already had a pure soul. That’s why she was called home early.” I remember being a ten-year-old boy and hating my dead sister because I would surely have to live forever to ever be worthy of His grace. How was it that she was born pure, and I so tainted? It didn’t seem fair.

  “Do you really believe that?” she asks.

  I hope it’s not so, or I’m destined to spend an eternity trying to atone. I’m a killer now. How long does a sin such as that take to wash from the soul? Ten years? Fifty? A hundred?

  “Sometimes faith is just giving someone something to believe in,” I say.

  Those deep green eyes lock with mine. “You think I should believe?” How can she not?

  “I think you need something to believe in, angel. What harm can a little faith do?” I can’t give Otto to her right now. Yet I also can’t watch her give up. If she falls, then so do I because she is my only chance at redemption. I can feel it. When she touches me, it’s spiritual, holy, transcendent.

  Her gaze locks onto the statue of the virgin, and she slowly rises to her feet. “Why do Catholics pray to the Virgin?”

  “It’s not praying to her. More like asking for help and guidance.” Like an angel.

  “Like a mother,” she whispers.

  “Yes.”

  She stops in front of the statue and tentatively reaches up, stroking her fingertips over the virgin’s cheek. The air shifts, and I know I’m witnessing a moment, an angel coming home. It’s biblical and momentous. See, Lord, I brought your angel to you. I will guide her back to your loving embrace.

  She drops her head forward reverently and remains like that for long moments, silently conversing with God. I’m jealous, knowing that she’ll be heard while I’m met only with silence.

  Finally, she lifts her head and glances over her shoulder at me. “Thank you. For bringing me here.”

  Standing, I walk with her out of the church. As soon as we cross that threshold, the outside world rushes back in. Reality crashes over us, and that sadness creeps back into her eyes.

  “Do you think my brother is dead?” she asks. I know he’s not.

  “No.”

  “I saw the news. I know that Bill Bromley and his brother are dead. Did the cartel kill them? Are they wiping out the entire gang?”

  I sigh. “The Bromley Brothers have screwed over a lot of people. Anyone could have taken them out.” She ducks her head, a small sniffle coming from her. Moving closer, I gently grip her chin, forcing her to look at me. “There’s still hope,” I say the words, and they’re true, but that hope is dwindling because Otto’s return is my demise. Now that I’ve damned myself, I’m running out of options.

  She sniffs again, attempting a watery smile. “Then I’ll hope. For one more day at least.”

  I suppose it’s cruel to watch her suffer, but she did this to me. I killed for her. I gave myself to the devil, for the wrath of an angel.

  Now the angel must save my soul.

  24

  Eden

  I wander through the perfectly mowed cemetery, passing headstones; some well cared for, while others have been abandoned to rot and decay, just as the people beneath them do.

  I spot the big oak tree and meander over to it. Wind ripples through the leaves and the scent of cut grass and earth drifts through the air. Birds chirp in the high branches, drowning out the distant rumble of traffic in the city.

  Just beneath the farthest reaching branches of the giant tree, there’s a tiny plaque, buried in the grass. The blades have mostly covered it, Mother Nature trying to reclaim her ground. Dropping to my knees, I tear away the overgrown grass that encroaches over my mother’s name. We couldn’t afford a fancy headstone. Before she died, she told us to sling her in a cardboard box. I smile at the memory, despite the tears welling in my eyes.

  I hated how flippantly she’d discuss her funeral. I’d get so angry with her because it felt like she’d stopped fighting, as though she were so resigned to it. I was mad that she accepted her death so readily when I never could. By the end though, she was at peace with it for herself, just heartbroken and terrified to leave Otto and me. Is this what I’m doing now, with my brother? Can I just not accept the facts in front of me?

  I brush my fingers over the engraved lettering of her name: Daisy Jane Harris. Beneath is a quote, though I have no idea who wrote it.

  ‘Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.’

  I choke on tears. She would say that to us all the time. God, I miss her. I miss her kindness, her strength, and the way that everything was okay in her arms. And now I’m alone. A castaway the rest of the world abandoned. I was okay. I was surviving — because I had to. For Otto. But now, today, everything feels too much. Saint said I should believe, but if there were a God, surely he’d have pity on me. How much is one person supposed to take before they break?

  If you’re listening, Mum, if there’s something beyond this crappy life, please bring Otto home. And…if he’s dead…if he’s dead, please look after him for me.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I place the cheap bunch of flowers I bought above the plaque and push to my feet.

  I walk through the run-down streets, the grey sky mourning with me. When I get back to my apartment, I find Saint Kingsley at my door.

  “Saint.”

  Wordlessly, he pushes away from the wall and offers me his arm. “Walk with me?”

  Alarm instantly sets in. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing.” His brows crumple in confusion, and still he holds his arm out to me. It’s strange, and out of character, but at this point, I’m beyond thinking about the consequences of my actions. I have nothing left to lose anymore. I take it, my fingers sliding over the expensive wool of his coat.

  He walks me through my shitty block of flats as though he were escorting a lady to afternoon tea. The way he moves is stiff and awkward, and his glacial glare is aimed at everyone we pass.

  Silence falls over us, but it’s not awkward or strained. I feel…safe with him. We walk through the ugly streets until we’re outside a posh coffee shop. No one from my area actually comes here, so there’s barely ever anyone here. Saint holds the door open for me, ushering me inside. Warm air meets my cheeks, and I instantly strip out of my jacket. The scent of ground coffee beans and sweet pastries fills the place, and my stomach grumbles in response, though the thought of actually eating food makes me instantly feel sick.

  “You’re bringing me for coffee?” I ask, completely confused.

  His eyes flick over my body, though it’s not sexual. “I’m feeding you. What do you want?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He turns to the waiting barista. “Two coffees, a blueberry muffin, and your soup.”

  “That’s eighteen-pounds fifty-three.” Saint swipes his card over the machine and waits while she places two coffees on a tray. “I’ll bring your food over,” she says cheerily, despite Saint’s obviously cold disposition.

  “Thank you.”

  He ignores me, picking up the tray. I follow him to a table by the window. Leather sofa chairs are littered with colourful cushions, and a rustic looking coffee table is placed between the two. We sit, and he picks up his mug of coffee, his gaze drifting out of the window for what seems like ages. The scene beyond the glass is nothing but a horizon of ugly concrete buildings and cranes. Even the people who move past the window seem to become one with the depression of it all. I pick up the coffee, inhaling the bitter scent wafting up to greet me. Still, he stares out the window, his face creased in what almost looks like disgust. I’ve never really stopped and just looked at him. He’s always been an enemy of sorts, a man I must rely on, but one I know could easily kill me. I’ve never noticed the square line of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbones, the acute slope of his nose. All I ever saw was those cold, inhuman eyes.

  The waitress comes over, distracting me from him. She smiles politely, placing a bowl of soup in front of me with a bread roll on the side. She sets the muffin in front of him.

  “Thank you.” She hurries away, and I find him watching me. Saint slides the muffin across the table in front of me.

  “I’m really not hungry.” I can barely eat these days. My stomach continually churns, and it feels like I’ll throw up at any minute.

  “Eat.” His eyes flick over me once more. “You look thin.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Eat, Eden.” He sounds so exasperated that I find myself picking up the spoon, worried about annoying him.

  “You’re not eating.”

  He eyes the soup down the length of his nose. “I have a very specific diet.” That was…informative.

  I take a spoonful of the soup, blowing on it before sliding it past my lips. The tangy sweetness of tomato hits my tongue, and the liquid heats me to my core when I swallow it. Saint watches me intently, and I start to fidget under his scrutiny.

  “Why Saint?” I ask. He frowns. “Why are you called Saint? Is it a nickname?”

  His brows furrow together, and for long seconds I’m sure he’s going to ignore me. “My mother said the moment she looked in my eyes, she knew I had the devil in me. It was her attempt to draw God’s attention.” Wow…that’s…messed up.

  “Did it work?”

  He cocks a brow. “Perhaps. But we make our own sins in this life.”

  I nod. I guess that’s true, but as I look at Saint, I feel a trace of sadness. He’s been raised to believe in God, only for his mother to tell him he has the devil in him. Is it any wonder he’s so cold and conflicted?

  “Eat, angel.”

  He watches me intently as I scoop a spoonful of soup, blow and swallow. When I’ve finished, he pushes the muffin closer. It’s like he enjoys watching me eat.

  “Anyone would think you’re trying to fatten me up,” I joke.

  He sips on his coffee, his eyes locking with mine over the rim of the mug. “I want to take care of you,” he murmurs. I’m not sure if I’ve stepped into the twilight zone. This entire situation is so strange.

  We don’t talk for the rest of the time. I sip my coffee and pick at my muffin. He stares out of the window, and I read the paper. It should probably be awkward, but it’s not.

  It’s actually nice to have some company and to do something normal, even if it is sitting in silence with Saint Kingsley of all people.

  Something has changed. Saint Kingsley has become…well, I suppose a friend. I don’t exactly know when it happened or how, but it did. Every afternoon he comes to my flat. We walk to the same coffee shop and sit at the same table. He makes me eat food. Sometimes we talk, most of the time we just sit, and it distracts me. That hour or so has become a bright point in my otherwise dark days. He’s a psychopath. Unfeeling. Cold. And yet when I’m around him I feel a little less lost, like he understands what I’m going through. Ash never understood my grief about Otto, not really, but I guess he knew he was the cause all along. That takes a special brand of monster. He hasn’t even attempted to contact me since I discovered what he did, thus proving further his lack of shame.

  Friends are few and far between. Even people like Summer…they mean well, but they pity me, tell me how sorry they are, that they’ll do anything to help. The words are meant well, but they’re hollow. Saint is the only person who physically can do anything to help me. The man I once thought would kill me, now feels like a life raft in a stormy sea, and not just because of Otto. He…helps me.

  The catacombs are packed tonight, and the air feels oppressive and stuffy. The feeling of claustrophobia creeps over me, squeezing my lungs until a full breath is a chore. One of the other girls – Talia I think her name is — lets out a string of curses under her breath.

  “Shit, go and tell Jase the lager is out,” she says to me. I jump at the chance to go upstairs and catch a full breath. “I think he’s in the boss’ office.” Great. No such luck.

  I walk through the catacombs until I reach the huge double doors at the very end. I knock once and push it open, only to freeze.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I try to look anywhere but at Saint’s shirtless form. But I can’t. I’m riveted at the image of him. Horrified. His back is a mess. Hundreds, maybe thousands of marks, layered over the top of each other, some bleeding, some old. The scar tissue is so extensive that it almost looks like a burn. He slowly turns to face me, his shoulders tense and his fists balled tightly. Veins rope his arms, lending to the image of restrained anger. And then I see his chest. The thick scabbed-over lines that form a crucifix that spans shoulder to shoulder and reaches from his neck to his belly button. “I…sorry.” I back, up, reaching behind me for the door handle.

  “Stop.” At that one word, I halt, closing my eyes. I feel like I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have.

  When I open my eyes again, he’s shrugging a shirt over his shoulders. I notice the discarded one tossed over the arm of the sofa, the white material blotted with red marks. Blood.

  “I’m looking for Jase,” I say, dropping my eyes to the floor.

  He slowly walks towards me, fastening his cufflinks as he does. He stops right in front of me, and I’m left staring at his throat. “What do you need, angel?”

  “Um…uh…” I don’t know.

  He places a finger to my chin, lifting my face until our eyes meet. “What did you need?”

  “Um, the lager. It’s out,” I fumble.

  “I’ll fix it.” And then he steps away, and it’s like whatever void he sucked me into suddenly fills with air once more.

  I fumble for the door, practically falling out of it. What the hell did I just see?

  25

  Saint

  The coffee shop is quiet, the same way it always is. A woman sits on the far side of the shop, her earphones in and her laptop in front of her. Other than that it’s just Eden and I. I pretend to read the newspaper, some terribly written article about politics in Europe. She squints at the magazine in front of her, concentration lines sinking into the smooth plain of her forehead.

  She chews the end of her pen and taps it over her bottom lip. Her spark is back, whatever light it is that shines from within her; it’s returned. Still buried beneath grief, but no longer extinguished. Her cheeks look fuller, her frame healthier. That porcelain skin is once again rosy instead of grey. So pretty.

  “Nine letters. To go beyond the limits of a field of activity or conceptual sphere.”

  “Transcend,” I say quickly.

  She peers at me through her lashes, her lips quirking before she scribbles on the paper. She’ll always ask for my help on her crossword, though she knows the answers. I think sometimes she feels the need to converse with me, as though my silence bothers her.

  “Ten letters. The infliction or imposition of a penalty as retribution for an offence.”

  “Punishment.”

  The smile instantly falls from her lips, and she doesn’t look at me as she fills in the puzzle. Her shoulders tense, and she falls into silence once more, scribbling out a few more words. I focus back on the drivel written on the paper in front of me.

  “Is that what those marks on your back are? Punishment?” she finally asks, just as I knew she would. She’s a curious little angel.

  I lower the paper and fold it, placing it on the coffee table. “Yes.”

  She swallows heavily. “Why?” Her voice comes out in a hoarse rasp.

  “It upsets you.”

  Her teeth rake over her bottom lip, and she nods. “Why do you do it?”

  “To atone. The infliction or imposition of a penalty as retribution for an offence…or sin.”

  “That’s a lot of marks, Saint,” she whispers. “How many sins do you need to atone for?” Now, I must atone for a single act that only she can save me from.

  “My every waking moment requires forgiveness, angel. Punishment is balance. Cause and consequence.”

  “You think you’re a bad person.” It’s a statement, but not one that requires a response. “I don’t think you are, Saint.”

  “Because you’re an angel.” She frowns. “You see good where there is none.” Just as it is my nature to commit bad deeds, it’s in hers to fix them, to negate the wrong and look for the right.

  Shaking her head, she folds up her magazine and places it on the table. Grabbing her coat, she pushes to her feet and slides it on. She’s upset, and I can’t work out why. I stand up, following her out of the little coffee shop. As the days have gone on, Eden has become less fearful of me. What were once silent walks are now usually filled with her chatter. I rarely respond, just listen. She’ll tell me memories of her family, talk about politics, her education…anything. But today it’s absent.