older than he was, but he had refurbished it inside and out, until it again stood upon the hill as proud and glorious as it had once been.
But this place... he found it ironic that one as cursed as he should dwell within its walls, that a place that had once been hallowed by the presence of hundreds of righteous, God-fearing men should now be inhabited by a demon most foul.
Crosswick Abbey had once been a beautiful edifice, home of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart, but now the whitewashed stone walls were gray and crumbling; the stained-glass windows that were still intact were dulled by years of dust and neglect; the cross that had once adorned the steepled roof had decayed long since.
Why hadn't she been afraid?
He walked past the chapel, past the long row of small, cold cells, into the high-ceilinged room that had once been used to welcome visitors to the abbey. It was the largest room in the building save for the chapel.
He dropped into the huge, high-backed chair he had taken for his own. For the first time in decades, he was filled with self-loathing for who and what he was. What right did he have to survive at the cost of another's life? What right did he have to inflict his presence on a child as pure and sweet as Sara Jayne? She would be horrified if she knew what manner of creature came to her in the dark of the night.
He stared at the blood on his hands, and knew he could not see her again.
She waited for him the next night, and the next. And when a week passed and still he did not come, she refused to leave her room, refused to eat, or to drink anything except a little water now and then.
With the covers pulled up to her chin, she stared at the veranda doors, waiting, knowing he would not come.
Sister Mary Josepha and Sister Mary Louisa hovered over her, begging her to eat something, weeping softly when she refused to answer their questions. Kneeling at her bedside, they prayed for her soul.
"What is it, Sara Jayne?" they asked time and again. "Are you ill? In pain? Please, child, tell us what's wrong."
But she couldn't tell them about Gabriel, so she only shook her head, silent tears tracking her cheeks.
The doctor came, only to go away shaking his head. She overheard him tell the good sisters there was nothing physically wrong with her; it was only that she had lost the will to live.
And so she had. With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Soon, she would no longer be a burden to anyone.
He stood on the balcony and stared at the rain, wondering why it reminded him of tears, and then, riding on the heels of the wind, he heard the sound of weeping.
Between one breath and the next, he was down the stairs and out the rusty iron gate, running with demon speed through the night, her name like the prayer of the damned on his lips.
He vaulted the wall of the orphanage with ease, crossed the grounds as silent as a shadow. Pausing at the veranda door, he peered inside. She lay beneath a heavy quilt, as still as death.
The complete absence of sound within the room echoed in his heart like thunder.
A wave of his hand opened the door and he stepped inside, then hurried to her side.
"Sara!" He threw back the quilt and lifted her into his arms. Her skin was dry and cold; her lips were blue. "Sara!"
She was dying. The knowledge struck him to the heart. She was dying, and it was his fault.
Without stopping to think of right or wrong, without pausing to consider the consequences, he opened the vein in his wrist and pressed it to her lips.
"Drink, Sara," he urged.
He waited for what seemed an eternity, but she didn't move. Frantic, he forced her lips apart, held his bleeding wrist over her mouth, and stroked her throat to make her swallow.
Not too much, he thought. He didn't want to initiate her, only bring the color back to her cheeks.
He removed his wrist from her mouth, and the wound healed almost instantly. "Sara?"
Her eyelids fluttered a moment and then she was staring up at him. "Gabriel?"
He cradled her against his chest, relief rushing through him. "I'm here."
"You didn't come. I waited and waited... and you didn't come."