Page 54 of The Fallen
“All right, buddy,” Gil said, turning and going inside.
The scents of the house—coffee, burnt wood, old carpet, and a slight undercurrent of lemon furniture polish—embraced him. He looked at the cluttered bookshelves lining the living room walls, the faded floral wallpaper, the potbelly stove glowing in the corner, and the mismatched furniture. Uncle Doddie was already asleep in the recliner, but he’d spent ten hours on the road picking Gil up from the prison, and he was seventy-four years old. He’d managed to remove one boot.
Gil set Mr. Brimstone down where the green shag carpet of the living room met the chipped beige tile of the kitchen. “This is it, buddy. Home. It’s…. Isn’t it great?”
The cat followed him into the kitchen and sat nipping at the claws on his back foot while Gil heated up some canned beef stew. He picked a few chunks of meat out of the broth and put them on a plate for Mr. Brimstone, saying, “We’ll get you some cat food tomorrow. Promise. Now, follow me.”
They went down a long hall and took a left into one of the newer wings of the house. The posters Gil had taped to the wood-paneled walls were curled and faded; dust covered the coffee table, mini-fridge, and the microwave on its stand. One of his sweaters lay on the floral-patterned sofa, untouched for all these years. Beyond, the bedroom was in a similar state: all Gil’s clothes hanging in the closet, a couple of books holding down some takeout menus on the nightstand. It was cold and musty, and Gil set the plates down and stacked some birch branchesinto the fireplace across from the wrought-iron bed while Mr. Brimstone sniffed the braided rug.
“It’s all just the way it was,” Gil mused. “It’s like the last five years never happened.” He sat on the edge of the bed and put Mr. Brimstone’s dish beside him like he always had in prison. He’d never made the cat eat on the floor. “We could just pretend it was all a bad dream, huh buddy?”
The huge cat ignored him in favor of the beef cubes.
“What am I going to do about that asshole Grady?” What would happen to the cat if Gil landed back in prison? What would happen to him—and Uncle Doddie—if he refused to do what Grady wanted? Not for the first time, Gil thought about getting rid of Grady, except Grady was hardly working alone. As he shoveled stew into his mouth, he came to the same conclusion as always: There was no way out of this.
He was fucked.
Gil set his bowl on the floor and flopped back onto the bed. He worried sleep might elude him, but the long day caught up to him and he started to drift off. A soft scratching sound roused him, and he found Mr. Brimstone pawing at the window.
“You sure you’ll be able to find your way back?” Gil asked.
The cat chirped and batted the checkered curtains. Gil looked outside. Beyond the yard and pumpkin patch, the fog rolled in thick, the big pine trees dark against it. Leaves skittered by, and the moonlight gave everything a silvery glow.
“I guess it’s a good night to be a cat,” Gil said. “Besides, you deserve some freedom. Just promise you’ll come back. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Mr. Brimstone butted his head against Gil’s jaw, and Gil opened the window a few inches. He watched the cat trot across the lawn until the shadows and mist swallowed his lanky, black body, wishing he could escape as easily.
CHAPTER 2
Bryn shook off his cat’s fur as soon as he reached the trees where Gil could no longer see him. He stood and stretched, running his hands over the smooth skin of his torso, luxuriating in the teasing caress of the damp, briny air. He arched his back and shook out his shoulder-length black hair, feeling wild, overwhelmed by the opportunities for fun and mischief now that they’d left the prison. From what he’d deduced on the drive into Cutler, it was a tiny seaside village perched on a rocky coast, not unlike those of his homeland. The residents likely made their living on the sea, and they’d be in bed early.
Bryn was only interested in finding one of them: the mouthy gobshite called Grady. He could have some fun with that dumb fud, no doubt. Since he couldn’t walk down the road in all his glory, Bryn glamoured himself up some nondescript—but still very flattering—clothes: tight, dark jeans, a sweater with a star on the chest, right where he bore his own white star beneath, a fitted blazer, and shiny black boots. He made his way onto Cove Road and then into town. His hackles rose every time he thought of how Grady had spoken to Gil.
“Nice place ye got here,” Bryn sing-songed, “be a shame if something… happened to it. Christ, what a cliché. I can’t wait to have a little conversation with you.”
He reached what passed for the town, with its post office, small school, bar, and postcard New England houses perched on hills, all of them facing the water and the collection of boats moored there. As he’d suspected, the streets were deserted, at least until he passed the United Methodist Church. Bryn hissed out a strong oath when he recognized the figure in the black habit hovering at the edge of the kirkyard: Brother Wilfred… or what was left of him.
The old Benedictine monk brushed back his pointed hood and fixed Bryn with his usual patient smile. It was a smile that said, “We both know that you’ve been up to no good, and I’m willing to wait as long as it takes for you to admit it.”
“Don’t you have anything better ta do with your afterlife than follow me around?” Bryn crossed his arms over his chest. “Shouldn’t ye be in heaven after all these centuries?”
“I took responsibility for you when I decided to teach you the error of your wicked ways,” the monk said. “I see ye still have not learnt.”
“I haven’t killed anyone,” Bryn protested. “By my count, I have seven more years of refraining before you lift your nasty curse and let me have my full powers back.”
“And what about that big lad who was teasing your friend in the prison?”
Bryn examined his fingernails. He liked keeping them a little longer and sharper than most might consider normal, even in this form. It would never do to be defenseless. “Slipped on a wet floor. Cannae be helped, can it?”
Brother Wilfred smirked and hid his hands in his billowing sleeves. “Accidents can happen. Like that prisoner with thepeanut allergy. Hard to believe the staff could mix up the meals like that.”
“Aye, I’m afraid they’re overwhelmed,” Bryn said with a shake of his head.
“And what are ye about tonight, then?”
“Can’t I go for a walk after spending three and a half years behind bars?” Bryn asked. “Through no fault of my own, I might add.”
“You wouldn’t be out here looking for a young fellow named Grady, would ye?” the monk asked. “If something were to happen to him, it would very much violate the terms on which we agreed all those years back.”
