Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,166

to file a complaint against Professor Singer.

Gabriel’s week was the week from hell. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes off of Julianne in his seminar, and the exertion made him irritable and short-tempered. Christa had almost arrived at the end of his patience, begging for extra meetings in which they could (allegedly) discuss her dissertation proposal. He rejected all her requests with a dismissive wave of his hand, which only made her redouble her efforts.

And Professor Singer…she sent an e-mail to Gabriel:

gabriel,

It was good to see you again. I’ve missed our little talks.

your lecture was technically proficient but I’m disappointed that you would present something so closed-minded.

you used to be adventurous. And free. Perhaps the professor doth protest too much…

you need to embrace your true nature and undergo a little training.

I can give you just what you need.

I can give you exactly what you crave,

Mme. Ann

Gabriel glared at Professor Singer’s dominatrix-like provocation, clear even in her lack of capitalization of his name and pronouns. His revulsion at her words and her person clarified for him how much he’d changed since their last encounter. She held no allurement for him, no attraction at all. Perhaps even in the time before Julianne returned to him he’d begun walking toward the light, a journey that had been nurtured and encouraged by her presence. The thought pleased him.

He was careful not to reply to or delete the e-mail. Instead, he did exactly what he had done with her previous correspondence—he printed it and placed it in a file in his office. He was unwilling to launch a complaint against her since their initial involvement had been consensual. But he was not above threatening her with her own words, should the need arise. He only hoped her fascination with him would continue and that she would forget all about Julianne.

In an effort to divert himself, Gabriel spent most of his free time that week either preparing for Julianne’s birthday or fencing with the fencing club at the university. Either option was far healthier than his previous habits for blowing off steam.

Every night he would lie awake staring at the ceiling, thinking of Julianne and wishing that her warm, soft body was next to his. He was beginning to have difficulty falling asleep without her, and no amount of tension release (in any form) was eliminating that difficulty. Or his hunger.

It had been a long time since he’d been on a formal date—since Harvard, at least. He cursed himself for his previous foolishness in thinking that his predations at The Vestibule were an adequate or preferable substitution for something real. Something pure.

He missed sex, it was true. Sometimes he wondered how he would be able to keep to his regimen of chastity, whether his hunger might overtake him and he’d work his seductive skills on Julianne’s sweetness. He had no intention of straying from her. He didn’t miss the alienation that came from going home alone from a lover’s apartment and washing her traces from his body as if they were contagions. He didn’t miss the self-loathing he felt when he reflected on past assignations, conquests of women who he would never have introduced to Grace.

Julianne was different. With her he wanted passion and excitement, but also tenderness and companionship. And that realization, although new, continued to both frighten and excite him.

***

On Saturday afternoon, Julia eagerly read and re-read the e-mail that gave her details about her birthday celebration.

Happy Birthday, Darling.

Please do me the honor

of gracing me with your presence

at the Royal Ontario Museum

this Saturday evening at six o’clock.

Meet me at the Bloor Street entrance.

I shall be wearing the suit and tie

and the incredibly wide smile

as you walk through the door.

I look forward to the pleasure

of your company with great anticipation.

Yours with affection and deepest longing,

Gabriel

She complied eagerly, wearing the iris-purple dress that Rachel had bought, along with sheer black stockings and Christian Louboutin heels. It was too far (and too painful) to walk in those shoes from her apartment to the museum, so she took a cab. She arrived promptly at six, her eyes shining and her cheeks pink with excitement.

I’m going on a date with Gabriel. Our first real date.

It almost didn’t matter that he’d insisted on celebrating her birthday; the thought of having Gabriel to herself for a romantic evening shoved all apprehension aside. She missed him, despite their furtive texts and e-mails and occasional leisurely phone calls.

The museum had undergone a substantial renovation, and a crystal sculpture shaped like