“She knows her brother.”

  She stares back at me…no one dares look at me like that.

  Pushing to my feet, I step around Jase and find myself moving closer, closer until I can clearly see every detail of her perfect features. She really is…exquisite. Like art. Reaching out, I grasp a piece of her hair and twirl it around my finger, admiring the way it shines like spun gold. Such a beautiful creature.

  “Are you innocent?” I breathe.

  “What?”

  Dropping her hair, I lift my gaze. “You’re a lost lamb.” I slowly circle her, and she glances over her shoulder, tracking the movement. Her breaths hitch delicately, and I spot the blood rushing erratically through the artery at her throat. She tries to appear calm, but she’s scared. I can practically smell the fear clinging to her. “Wandering in the lion’s den without your shepherd.”

  A spark of defiance rises in those emerald eyes of hers. “I didn’t choose to come here.”

  I find myself reaching out to her, wanting to know if she’s every bit as soft as she looks. As soon as my knuckles brush over the silky skin of her neck, a shiver wracks my body. It’s almost…holy. She steps back, frowning as she moves away from me.

  “You came for your brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” My eyes collide with hers, and everything stops. Thoughts flee like dust on the wind — there one second and absent the next. I have this niggling need to know more. “Why?”

  “Because he’s my brother. I’d do anything for him.” Interesting.

  “So you would come here, to seek out men you know to be outside of the law, regardless of the danger to yourself?”

  “Yes.” Thud, thud, thud. I can see each firm jolt of her heart against her chest like the beat of a war drum. “Are you going to kill me?” she asks, her voice deceptively calm.

  “I don’t kill people.” But I want to. Oh, how I want to. I often fantasise about the prospect of draining the life from someone and watching the very moment that their essence leaves their body. There would be a certain rightness to it, a justice of sorts. I, the predator in their midst, exercising my superiority. But killing is an unforgivable sin. One that there is no coming back from. No amount of pain would or could cleanse my soul of that taint. I’d be destined for the fires of hell with no hope of redemption. Bad boys go to hell. But her…Eden. She’s so perfect. That pale skin would be almost translucent in death, and those full lips would look so pretty tinged blue. Like a doll, a broken, discarded little doll. Closing my eyes, I imagine her lifeless face and fight a groan. “I don’t kill,” I repeat. But Jase does. I could end this. Jase would carry the penalty, not me. She knows too much. She tempts me too much. I should end it now. But as the words linger on the tip of my tongue, I feel a shift in the air, as though the Lord himself were placing a hand on my shoulder to stay me. Protecting her.

  A tense silence falls over the room, and Eden’s gaze flicks over my shoulder to where I know Jase still stands.

  “Leave.”

  “What?” They both say in unison.

  “Go! Before I change my mind.” I rub at my temples as my pulse starts hammering against my eardrums. The door slams shut, and I turn on my brother.

  “Who is she to you?” I snap.

  His eyes go wide. “No one. I’ve never met her before tonight.”

  I narrow my eyes, reading him, seeking out the signs of a lie. “Then why advocate for her? Why do you care if she lives or dies?” He drops his chin to his chest and rubs a hand over the back of his neck, something he only does when he’s stressed. If he’s somehow involved… I move towards him, fully intent on wrapping my hands around his throat. “I just feel bad for her, okay?” He blurts the words in an ugly confession. I frown. Guilt. He feels guilt towards this girl he doesn’t even know? “She’s just a normal girl, Saint. She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.”

  “She came here willingly.”

  “For her brother.”

  “Foolish.”

  His eyes meet mine. Our father’s eyes. “Is it? I’d do the same for you.” Ah, poor Jase. So riddled by his emotions. I forget that he didn’t grow up in this life the way my brother Judas and I did. By the time my father found his bastard son from one of his affairs, Jase was fourteen. He’d been raised normally. Of course, my father initiated him into the family business by the time he was eighteen, but that distance, the ability to separate business from any form of emotion…Jase never quite learned it. I trust him more than anyone, as my right hand man. Do I value him as family? Of course not. Such weaknesses are unacceptable. I like him a damn sight more than I like Judas though.

  “Careful, Jase. That bleeding heart of yours is showing again.” He releases an unsteady breath, and his shoulders visibly tighten. Stepping forward, I place one hand on his face. “The next time you beg for someone’s life, I’ll make you slit their throat and watch them bleed.” Leaning in, I bring my lips to his ear. “We cannot afford weakness.” He nods in acceptance, and I pat his cheek. “Good. Now, find everything you can on Eden Harris, and have her watched.”

  “You’re going to help her?”

  “No, I’m going to watch her and make sure she poses no threat to my business.” I need to know every inconsequential detail of her pitiful life. Knowledge is power, and if I must allow her to live, then I absolutely will have the upper hand.

  4

  Saint

  The familiar chill settles into my bones, and I find a certain satisfaction in the mild form of suffering. Silence permeates the air, all the better to hear the Lord’s voice. Several candles flicker on the rack, a symbol of hopes and prayers, worshippers hoping they’ll be heard.

  I sit on the front pew and close my eyes, absorbing the sense of tranquillity. The church always soothes me, but today it’s more. I’m waiting for something, though I’m not sure what. A sign? Some kind of divine intervention?

  I’m not sure how long I sit there. It could be minutes, or it could be hours. Eventually, the first rays of dawn start to creep into the sky, the sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows and bathing the church in a kaleidoscope of colours.

  Pushing to my feet, I stretch my stiff legs and make my way to the doors. Outside, the usual hum of London traffic is dulled. It’s this time, between the night and the early morning rush that I love. It’s as though not a single other soul exists.

  Slipping behind the wheel of my car, I make the drive into the centre of the city. The traffic is just starting to pick up by the time I pull into the underground parking garage. Exiting my car, I take the elevator up to the top floor. My home is another sanctuary, second only to the church. The smooth, clean lines and clinical décor are like a blank slate to my mind. I could live outside London, away from the swarming centre of the ant’s nest, but instead, I choose to live among them. Above them. From up here, I can see most of London, sprawled like a giant snarling, concrete beast, and the people, scrambling around, hurrying to get to work like the insects that they are.

  The dining room table is set, a cup of steaming coffee sitting next to a plate of Eggs Benedict. My cook prepares breakfast at exactly the same time each day and then leaves before I get here. As I said, this is my sanctuary. I don’t like to be sullied with the presence of others. Taking a seat, I unfold the napkin and place it across my lap. I rest my elbows on the table and clasp my fingers together before bowing my head.

  “Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses. As we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation. But deliver us from evil.”

  The eggs are cooked to perfection as always, and the sauce melts on my tongue. I like good staff who do their job well, and that is why I’ve had the same housekeeper for five years. I’ve never seen her face, and she’s never seen mine, but I know she’s very good at her job. That’s the way I like it.

  When I’ve finished, I place the plate, mug and silverware in the dishwasher, and retire to my room for a shower. I finally slip into bed when everyone else is on their hellish morning commute. The blackout blinds slowly lower, blocking out the world beyond these four walls. Sleep takes me almost instantly.

  Everything around me is blackened and charred for as far as the eye can see. The once long grass is reduced to nothing but ash. I can feel the soles of my bare feet blistering and melting, though the pain isn’t as extreme as I instinctively know it should be. The morbid outline of what were once tall wildflowers brush against my fingertips, disintegrating into dust and catching on the wind. It’s dark and ominous-feeling, the sky a strange muted pink that blends to blood red exactly where it meets the horizon. The smell of smoke and sulphur wafts up from the dead ground, bringing with it a niggling sense of dread. Suddenly, there’s a blinding light, and I hold my hand up to shield my eyes. Slowly, the light retracts, shrinking until it’s a small point in the distance. And there it stays, like a guiding beacon. My feet move of their own accord, traipsing forward, because how can they not? It feels important, but I don’t know why. The closer I get, the lighter I feel. The hot, toxic air becomes easier to breathe, and the blackened earth cools beneath my feet.

  But the closer I get, the less I can see. It’s like looking directly at the sun. My eyes water and sting. Yet I can’t not look. I need to see. And as I stare into the abyss, my eyes adjust until a form comes into view. A figure, hunched over or curled into a ball. Bit by bit, more details come into focus, a curtain of blonde hair, bare arms clutched around equally bare legs, a petite feminine form... Slowly, the woman uncoils, her arms dropping to her sides and her head lifting. That curtain of hair parts slightly, and glowing green eyes meet mine. Eden. She is the garden itself. As those eyes bore into mine, I can almost hear the calling of birds, the soft rustle of a warm spring breeze, angels singing. Slowly, large white wings rise from her back before unfurling to either side in a lazy stretch. I can’t breathe. Tears prickle my eyes and a sensation that I can only describe as pure joy constricts my chest. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It hurts to look at her, and I swallow the lump in my throat. Has there ever been a more perfect being? Of course not. The angel ascends to her feet, her naked form still glowing with that ethereal light.

  “Saint.” Her voice sounds like the most heartbreaking chorus, a solemn drawn-out note. Her wings glow, emanating a warmth that reaches across the space between us and heats my skin. “Help me,” she pleads, as tears start to track down her cheeks. They glisten. The tears of an angel. What a tragic thing. Tentatively, she raises a hand and reaches out to me. “Help me.” I take a step forward, though the space between us suddenly grows as I reach out for her. “Help me.”

  The ground rumbles beneath my feet, and I rush towards her, or at least I try, but I can’t. The charred ground cracks and splits, allowing a wall of fire to launch high into the air. Her screams tear through me as the flames engulf her. The beautiful feathers of her wings are alight, and her skin reddens and blisters, her tears turning to blood. Like the Virgin herself.

  “Help me,” she screams.

  I lurch awake, sucking breaths deep into my lungs. I’m burning up — sweat slicking my body and soaking into the sheets. The image of Eden is branded into my mind: her perfect face, the wings. Fumbling in my bedside drawer, I find the old weathered bible I always keep there. The pages are worn and crumpled from years of abuse. The cover cracked and creased over the passage of time. It was my mother’s, and her father’s before that. The words in this book have brought comfort and reason to many as they now do to me. I could recite it cover to cover, and yet I always come back to the same passage.

  “Come, let us talk this over,” says the Lord. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.”

  To witness an angel burn must surely be a curse. It was so vivid. So real. What does it mean? Is it a sign? Or nothing more than a dream? The questions plague me far into the day, and sleep evades me. A narrow shaft of sunlight penetrates the blinds, and when the bright light of day fades to a dusky orange and finally dips to darkness, I rise. My mood is sour, and sleep deprivation has left me with a headache again.

  Getting up, I slip into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a pair of trainers before going to the kitchen. My ready-made spinach and wheatgrass smoothie sits on the top shelf courtesy of the housekeeper. I tip it back in several large gulps, fill a bottle of water and head into the gym. The same way I do every evening. Routine is sanity, and chaos is the enemy of success.

  I warm up on the treadmill before starting my usual ten-mile run. Running usually serves to empty my mind, but not today. Eden is there like an alarm on repeat. Help me! I can still hear that gut-wrenching scream playing through my mind on repeat. I run and run, trying to outrun my thoughts. Sweat coats my body as my lungs burn and my legs ache. It takes sixteen miles until my mind is finally clear, a blank canvas on which to paint the new day. Slamming my hand over the stop button, I stagger off the treadmill on unsteady legs. I leave the gym and move through my apartment. Halfway down the hall is a door that looks like a storage cupboard. Inside is a small room with various instruments hanging from hooks on the walls. A yoga mat sits in the middle. I pick up the cat o’ nine tails hanging on the first hook and crouch, allowing my knees to find the slight indents in the mat, there from years of use. I place the whip neatly on the floor in front of me and peer up at the statue of the Virgin that sits pride of place in front of me. Her face is kind, marred only by the blood tears that streak over the porcelain of her cheeks. Just like Eden. Clasping my hands in front of me, I speak the words.

  “Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly to thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother; to thee do I come; before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me. Amen.”

  Forgiveness. I spend my life asking for it because I must apologise for what I am. And if I’m forgiven enough, then surely my place in heaven can be bought with remorse and punishment? Yes, there must always be punishment: Cause and consequence. Picking up the flogger, I wrap my fingers tightly around the leather-wrapped handle. With a sweep of my arm, it arches high and then lands over my shoulder. The tiny metal beads at the end of each tassel bite into my skin with a distinct sting. The pain rises like a wave, washing over me euphorically. I bring it down again and again, over both shoulders, relishing in the discomfort. I endure far more than I normally would because I need it. With each blow, the image of Eden burning flashes through my mind. Her face, her tears, her screams… I keep going until my back burns and hums, blood rushing to the surface to form what I know will be ugly bruises. Smiling, I drop my head forward, feeling the sin wash away in a river of absolution. Now I’m ready to truly start my day.

  5

  Saint

  The low orange glow of the streetlight reflects over the glossy black paint of Jase’s BMW. He leans against it, one ankle crossed over the other, and his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his suit trousers. A cigarette hangs between his lips, and I wrinkle my nose when the scent drifts over to me. Filthy. To poison the body is to infect the mind. As soon as he catches sight of me, he casually tosses it to the ground, crushing it under his shoe with a flutter of embers. I eye the flattened butt with disgust.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. He called me here, requested a meeting, which is unlike him. I also know that whatever he has to say, he doesn’t want said over a phone line. I’ve taught him well.

  He scrubs a hand over his face. “Some of our cash got picked up.”

  “What?”

  “One of the Launderettes got raided for drugs. They found the cash there.”

  I relax. “They’ll just confiscate it as drug profits.”

  He shakes his head, his expression solemn. “No. One of my dirty cops called me. They know it’s fake. It’s been sent higher up. They’ve opened an investigation.”

  The words sink in, and a low rage starts simmering away beneath my skin. “How?” He says nothing. “How did they know it wasn’t real?” My cash is perfect, as good as the real thing. I even make my own paper so as to get the composition exactly the same as the Royal Mint. It’s art, a masterpiece. There’s no way.

  First, Eden Harris, and now this. Messy. It’s all so messy, and I have the urge to kill everyone and wipe everything squeaky clean.

  “That’s why I wanted to meet you here.” He jerks his head toward the ramshackle, abandoned-looking warehouse that lingers in the shadows ahead of us.

  Pushing away from the car, he starts walking, and I follow, clenching and releasing my fists in an attempt to relieve my rage. Anger is a lack of control. To lose control is to hand one’s self over to the Devil. Breathe in and out. In and out.

  An icy wind whips around us, sending dead leaves skittering over concrete. The moon sits low in the sky, fighting with the light pollution of the city for the limelight. The silvery light spills over the corrugated iron exterior of the warehouse, showing the cracked and mossy exterior. The high-set single pane windows are smashed out, some boarded up, while others are just a gaping void of neglect. This is where the bulk of my operation is run. Right here, in this sad, abandoned-looking building in one of the worst parts of London. This is where the police dare not come, and the criminals rule. I own them both, but I’m careful. I like to cover every base, but I’d rather deal with criminals because a morally corrupt man can always be bought. For the most part, almost any man has a price, but there’s the slim possibility that a man of the law may actually want to do the right thing.