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  The door to Gabriel’s apartment flew open, Wyatt having kicked it in. He had a key, but not the patience for using it. Lucifer stood from his spot on the couch, setting his book on the end table.

  “Brother,” he greeted. “Apologies for missing the funeral. I assumed my presence there would have been in bad taste.”

  Without a word, Wyatt hurled a bolt of lightning into the devil’s chest, sending him flying back into the sofa, smoke rising from the seared flesh now exposed by the hole burned in his button-down.

  “That smarts,” Lucifer complained, setting himself up.

  “Wyatt, stop!” Valerie yelped, running in behind him as he marched toward Lucifer, unable or unwilling to hear her. “Wyatt!”

  He threw a ball of electricity into his brother’s chest, then another. Lucifer winced but didn’t fight back. “It’s all right, sister,” he said, raising a hand to keep her back. “We all know I deserve it.”

  Wyatt leaped over the ottoman and wrapped his hands around his brother’s neck, squeezing so hard, his nails drew blood. He then unleashed all the power he could muster, taking it from every source in the apartment, causing lights to shatter and appliances to explode. Lucifer’s eyes bulged and his nose spewed blood as his body shook violently, his mouth foaming.

  “Wyatt, stop!” Valerie pleaded. “You’re killing him!”

  “That’s the goal,” Wyatt grunted, the look in his eyes that of a rabid dog.

  Her heart racing, Valerie grabbed the sides of Wyatt’s head and showed him his own memory, revealing to him what had actually happened the night his son died. He saw it all; his conversation with Lucifer in the woods, holding Will under the rushing water of the creek. He could feel the boy thrashing in the water, then going limp. He watched as his soul drifted away. He remembered instructing his brother to tell him what he’d done and returning to his body, recreating its organs and structure. He even remembered the affection he, as Barachiel, had for Lucifer, his older but damaged and somewhat needy brother, that he’d missed terribly since the last time they’d been together.

  Valerie let go and backed away as Wyatt stumbled, collapsing onto the ottoman, short of breath and eyes wide.

  Lucifer healed and jolted up. “Why did you do that?!” he barked at his sister. “Those memories were meant to stay buried!”

  “Uh, you’re welcome,” she snapped.

  “The blame should have been mine to bear.”

  “Are you stupid? He was killing you.”

  “I would have been fine. Besides, look at him now. He can’t handle the burden of what he’s done! He’s much too fragile. We went over this.”

  “I couldn’t just stand here and let him--” She stopped as Wyatt got up and staggered toward the door. “Where you goin’?”

  He walked to the hall, not looking back. “Leave me alone.”

  Wyatt rifled through his father’s desk, falling into the chair when he found what he’d been looking for. He opened the bottle of scotch and guzzled the contents, ignoring the empty glass that sat in front of him. The study was dim and dust had begun to collect on the globe in the corner next to the shaded window. The room itself felt lost, serving no purpose since the passing of its former occupant, another loss Wyatt still hadn’t fully dealt with. When the bottle was empty, he searched for another, tossing papers and books from the desk drawers before throwing the lamp, shattering it against the wall, and heaving the desk from its place to the other side of the room, blocking the doorway. He fell to the floor and sobbed, his chest tight and heavy as he trembled, his wailing piquing the interest of the ghost that resided there. She lurked in the far corner, kneeling and folding her hands as she watched him, curious. She hoped that he would stay. She’d missed him.

  Chapter 2

  In life, Margaret had been an immigrant to this city. Having left Ireland in the hopes of a better life, she quickly learned that New York was no place for a young woman on her own. Luckily, she’d been taken in by The Whyos who gave her food and proper clothes. They’d even found a job for her working as a maid for a prominent businessman. He’d recently rented an apartment in a newly constructed building in a remote part of town and wanted to keep it in pristine condition, even though he had no intention of actually living there. She stayed in the servant’s quarters: a tiny room with one window, a mattress on the floor and not much else. It was small, but so was she, standing five feet exactly and weighing about ninety pounds. Other people may have seen her room as cramped or inadequate, but it was warm and dry with a beautiful view. As a poor, illiterate farmer’s daughter who’d grown up fighting for scraps, never having owned a pair of shoes until she’d been given refuge in The Bowery, servant’s quarters seemed like a luxury.

  She’d been washing the windows when the man made his first appearance. Until then, she’d never actually met her employer. Once a week for two months, he’d leave her payment on the desk in the study. She’d never seen his face. She didn’t even know his name.

  He’d ignored her at first, busy with some sort of paperwork. She had curtsied when he entered the room, but she was sure he hadn’t noticed. She continued with her work, leaving the man to his, assuming it must be important. He’d spent all day in the study, looking over papers, occasionally scribbling something on one of them. She’d made sure to stay quiet, not wanting to break his concentration. She’d heard horror stories of abusive employers, beating their servants with belts or even whips for minor infractions. One girl that worked as a nanny in the building had several marks on her arms; burns from her master’s cigars. She had been lucky, the girl had told her, that her boss was never around. Now that he was, she couldn’t help but be nervous. Still, the sun was setting and it was time for her to retire for the evening. She couldn’t just do that, though. She knew the protocol. She had to ask permission. So, she made her way to the study, her heart racing and her throat going dry.

  The door had been left ajar. She gently tapped on it before entering, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Excuse me, sir.” She curtsied again.

  He looked up from his mound of paperwork. “Yes?”

  “I’ve finished for the day, sir. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Stand up straight, girl. Let me get a look at you.”

  She did as she was told.

  “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “I absolutely do. How old are you?”

  “I turned eighteen last month, sir.”

  “Very good. Tell me, can you read?”

  She was embarrassed to answer but choked back her pride. “No, sir.”

  “Ah. Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to teach you. Come, sit.”

  “Yes, sir.” She sat in the chair across from the desk, but he shook his head.

  “No, girl. Here.” He patted his knee. She swallowed hard and did her best not to show how uncomfortable it made her as she went around the desk and sat on his leg. “First, you’ll have to learn what the letters are. See this right here?” he pointed to a mark on a page from the pile.

  She nodded.

  “That’s ‘A’. This one here, that’s ‘B’. Do you know the sounds they make?”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s fine. You’ll get there. Now, this letter is ‘C’. This here is ‘D’.”

  She looked at the marks as he pointed them out, trying to memorize them. She didn’t know why he wanted her to become literate. Most employers didn’t care, so she’d been told. Some even preferred their staff to be unable to read. Less chance of them moving on to better jobs and leaving them in the lurch. Plus, reading a book could make a person lose track of time, time that would be better spent working. But, if he needed her to read, she would learn. Anything to keep her position.

  As he spoke, the low, soothing sound of his voice distracted her. She snuck a look at him, noticing the way his eyes sparkled, green as the grass back home. He was older, at least forty, but handsome with wisps of gra
y running through his otherwise deep chestnut hair. He smelled of cedar and tobacco and his leg felt warm underneath her. His left hand was firmly placed on the small of her back, presumably to keep her steady. But, as he went through the alphabet, that hand began to lower, brushing over and then settling on her backside.

  She knew that was inappropriate but as anxious as it made her, there was part of her that didn’t mind. It felt nice to be getting attention from a man, even if it was her boss. No man had looked at her twice since she’d arrived in this country, and this was a fine man, indeed. She wondered if she could ingratiate herself to him. Seduce him, even. If she could find a way to make him fall in love with her, maybe he would marry her. She could live a life of luxury and opulence instead that of a poor maid. Fairytales, she thought as she pushed the daydream aside and tried to focus. She concentrated on the marks on the page, following his words as best she could. But, as he spoke, his voice became fainter. She could feel his breath on her cheek, warm against her skin. He went quiet, his right hand moving from the papers to her leg.

  He pulled up her skirt and petticoat, slowly as to gauge her response. She allowed it. He slid his hand up, gliding over and between her legs as he nuzzled her neck. She fluttered with anticipation, wanting to behave demurely, but aching for his touch. He gently pushed her legs apart, just enough that he could slip his fingers inside. Her breathing quickened as he messaged her. She could feel her body responding to him, unable to control the movements of her hips. She threw her arm around his shoulders to balance herself. He took that as an invitation to take things to the next level.

  He hoisted her onto the desk, carefully pushing his papers to the side. He pushed up her clothes, revealing her pale, freckled skin. He hastily removed his trousers and pulled her to the edge of the desk, opening her legs and thrusting himself into her. She gasped, the combination of pain and pleasure flooding through her. He grasped her rear, squeezing as he continued. She lay back, grinding against him, her hands over her head holding on to the desk for stability. She bit her lip, stifling the cries that begged to escape her lips. She’d never felt anything like this. Was this what an orgasm felt like? She’d never had one but had been informed by the other servant girls in the building that they were possible. The boys she’d been with back in Ireland had been so quick to finish, it was hardly pleasurable for her at all. Now, though, her skin felt hot, like bathwater washing over her. Wave after wave of euphoria gripped her as she held on to the desk, her knuckles going white. He continued to buck, pushing hard and fast into her. She was sure she’d have bruises where his fingers dug into her behind, but she didn’t care. She exploded with pleasure, every part of her tingling. Finally, the man grunted, his face twisting as sweat ran down his temples. His face had gone red and he trembled as he filled her.

  When he was done, he put his pants back on and wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t look at her. He gathered his papers and walked toward the door. “That’s all for today.” He left the apartment, leaving Margaret in a state of shame. She slid off of the desk, standing and adjusting her dress, her legs weak. It had been a ruse. The man had had no interest in teaching her to read. It was an excuse to get her close.

  “I’m so stupid,” she whimpered, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. She refused to let them. “It’s all right,” she told herself. “I’m fine.”

  But she wasn’t, and she could feel in her gut that she would never be fine again.

  Months had passed. By the time the man returned, Margaret had begun to show. She had tried to hide her condition with an oversized uniform, but there was no disguising her bump given her small frame.

  She’d curtsied as he entered the apartment, keeping her eyes averted. He paused to look her over before heading to the study, this time closing the door. She let out a sigh of relief. She knew she’d have to tell him. She’d have to do it today. It could be another six months or more before she’d see him again. Her heart thumped in her chest as she awaited the conversation, unsure of what exactly she’d say. She didn’t want to sound bitter, though she was still angry with him for using her the way he had. She wanted to appear strong, capable of handling this on her own if that’s what he wanted. He would not get the best of her. He would not see her cry.

  As the sun set, he finally exited the study, a stern look sharpening his features. She turned to face him and curtsied again. Before she could say a word, he took her hand and thrust fifty dollars into it.

  “Sir?”

  “There’s a man in Syracuse, a doctor,” he told her. “His method is less painful, I’ve heard. Safer.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “I believe that you do.” He glanced down at her belly.

  She was horrified. “You want me to--”

  “I’m a married man, girl. My wife has given me six children and while I may indulge in the occasional indiscretion, I will not shame her by fathering a bastard with the help. You will see the doctor. I trust you’ll be discreet.” And with that, he took his leave.

  She stood there, mouth agape and head spinning. What he was asking was impossible. She was too far along. She’d felt the quickening. To end the pregnancy now would be a sin. She couldn’t do what he’d demanded. She simply couldn’t.

  Two months later, the man returned. She shuddered at the fire in his eyes, his face red with rage.

  “You defied my orders!” he bellowed.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It was too late. I couldn’t--”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses! You have no idea what you’ve done!” He paced the floor as she cowered in the corner, hands folded, bracing herself for the beating she was sure she was about to receive.

  “I haven’t spent the money. I left it in your desk. I don’t want anything from you.”

  “It’s not about the money, you stupid girl!” He bounded toward her, his face twisted in anger. She could see that he wanted to hit her. She recognized the look. Her father used to look at her mother like that just before he’d start in. He didn’t do it, though. Instead, he disappeared into another room. When he came back, he was carrying a toolbox. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his face had gone pale, the look of a man who knew he was about to do something truly horrific.

  He left, slamming the door behind him. She was stunned. She’d been sure he’d reprimand her in some way. When no punishment was allocated, she breathed a sigh of relief. He was angry, yes, and she’d have to raise her baby alone. She would have to concoct a story of a fake husband. Maybe a Marine, killed in the Rebellion in Hawaii. It would be difficult, but it was doable. She would find a way. She would have her baby and she would show him the love she’d never known herself.

  She’d been so lost in her own thoughts, she hadn’t heard the pounding. It was coming from the door. She thought the man had come back. Perhaps he’d left his key in his rush to get out of there. She went to answer, but the door wouldn’t open. The knob turned, but it wouldn’t pull to. She pulled harder. Nothing. She kept pulling, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Sir?” she called. “Sir, the door’s stuck!”

  No answer. Just more pounding.

  “Sir? Sir?!”

  Again, no answer. The pounding stopped.

  “Sir, I can’t open the door!” She smacked her hand against it a few times, hoping he’d be able to hear her now that he’d stopped knocking himself. “Sir!” She hit the door a few more times, confusion giving way to panic. She stepped back, catching her breath.

  Her hands shook and her eyes became saucers as she realized what had happened. He hadn’t been knocking. He’d been nailing the door shut. He’d trapped her inside.

  She threw herself at the door, screaming and banging her fists against the wood. “HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE!” But no one came.

  There was no food in the apartment. She was sure she would starve. But, it was worse than that. The next day when she awoke, she discovered the water had been shut off. She would be dead inside of a week with no wa
ter. He had done it purposefully. He was trying to kill her.

  She should have been afraid. She wasn’t. She was enraged. She drank the water from toilet tanks and convinced herself she’d survive on spite alone. He’d have to come back eventually. The smell of a rotting corpse would surely draw suspicion. He’d have to dispose of her body. So, when he came back, she’d have her revenge. She slept with a kitchen knife under her pillow and waited.

  Another week had gone by. She’d run out of water and she hadn’t felt her baby move in two days. She’d noticed the blood before she’d felt any pain.

  On her mattress in the servant’s quarters, she gave birth to her son. His skin was gray and his body limp. He never cried, but she did. For three days, she held her bundle and sobbed. She was hot with fever and would soon join her boy in death. It was her only consolation. She would forever hold her baby in her arms.

  On the fourth night, the man returned. Dropping his toolbox at the sight of the dead child. He covered his mouth and sank to his knees.

  “You did this to us,” she spat, her voice barely audible. “I will tell everyone what you’ve done. I will--”

  “You’ll tell no one.” He growled, pinning her to the blood-soaked bed. He sat on her chest, holding her arms down with his legs. The knife peeked out from under the pillow. He took it and grasped her jaw, holding her mouth open. She tried to bite him, but he persisted in overpowering her, not a difficult feat, considering. He couldn’t get a proper grip on her tongue, so instead of a clean cut, he hacked at it, mutilating it, sending bits of tissue flying in all directions. “You won’t tell a soul. If only you could write.”

  She screamed in pain, blood gurgling in her throat and pouring out her mouth. Even when he stood, she couldn’t move. Between infection and blood loss, she was too weak. Her vision became blurry, but as she faded, she saw the man take a tool from his box and begin to pry up a floorboard.