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Authors: Robert Browne

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
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“Alejandro!” she shouted, pounding her fists against the wood, suddenly afraid that this wasn’t a nightmare after all. “Alejandro, help me!”
He won’t help you, my darling. He doesn’t love you as I do.
Gabriela spun, searching the small room, looking for the source of the voice. “What do you know about him? Who are you? What do want from me?”
Only that you return my love.
Gabriela shifted her gaze to the pipe again. Was it the dust speaking? How could that be possible?
No, no, she thought. Like before, the voice was inside her head. Brought on by the fever. What else could it be?
Tell me you love me, Gabriela.
Gabriela turned, searching the room again. “I love only the Father.”
Oh? Do you see Him anywhere? He cares for you even less than sweet, attentive Alejandro
.
“You’re wrong,” Gabriela cried. “He believes in me. He trusts me.”
And how do you know this?
“Why else would he send His angel to . . .”
She stopped herself. All at once, she knew what this was about. And it had nothing to do with fevers or dreams at all.
To what, my darling?
Lowering her voice, she said, “Go away. You’re wasting your time. I’ll never give you what you want.”
And what would that be?
“To betray my oath.”
The voice laughed.
You make it sound so serious. But people break promises every day. What about all those promises you made to Sofie?
“Leave me alone!”
Not until you tell me what I need to know. Don’t worry about the Father. He abandoned us all a long, long time ago. There’s no place in his kingdom for you. You’re one of the forgotten.
“You’re wrong,” Gabriela cried. “He believes in me. Trusts me. And I won’t betray that trust.”
And what about all the scribbling in that precious book of yours? If that isn’t a betrayal, what is?
Gabriela felt fingers skitter along her spine. “How do you know about that?”
I know everything about you, my darling. I’m part of you. I always have been. I’m the desire you feel when you look at Alejandro. When you stare longingly at Sofie’s pipe.
Gabriela shifted her gaze to the sink again and looked at the pipe and lighter sitting there, perched on the edge, calling to her. But she knew she had to resist. “No. I’ll never give in to you. Never.”
Never
is such a strong word, isn’t it? Your pathetic old friend said much the same to me, but in the end he was willing to compromise. Everyone is.
“My friend?”
The collector. One of your brethren.
Mention of the collector startled Gabriela. If this woman knew about him and was now coming to
her
, then they were
all
at risk. And so was the secret they held. Despite the fear rocketing through her bloodstream, Gabriela could not let herself give in to her weaknesses. There was too much at stake.
“No—you can’t seduce me. I’ll tell you nothing.”
What harm would it do, my angel? Who would know?
“
I
would know,” Gabriela shouted. “
I
would know.” Then she turned again, pounding her fists against the door. “Alejandro! Where are you? Help me!”
But no one answered.
Suddenly remembering the phone in her back pocket, and silently thanking Alejandro for his paranoia, she pulled it free and fumbled it in her hands, nearly dropping it. Clutching it tightly, she pressed speed dial, then put it to her ear, waiting for it to ring.
But it didn’t. Went straight to voice mail.
Damn him. Why was he always on the phone?
Then, without warning, Gabriela was confronted by a blur of motion. Something swung out at her, knocking the cell phone from her hand. It flew to the floor, bounced once, and settled faceup under the feces-stained toilet.
Startled, she snapped her head up and discovered that she was no longer alone in the room.
Sofie
was there, standing before her, the pipe and lighter in her hands. Her skin was bone white, festering sores on her cheeks and forehead. A dribble of vomit on her chin.
It was far and away the most horrifying sight Gabriela had ever seen. She brought her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream, and backed away.
Then Sofie spoke.
“Look at you, so sweet and noble now. All those fools calling your name. What do you think they’d say if they knew you left me here to die?”
Gabriela shook her head violently. “It was the dust that made me do it. You know that as well as I do.”
“The dust? The dust was our friend, Gabriela. Remember how happy it made us feel? Remember how we laughed?” Sofie lifted the hand holding the pipe. “If you won’t tell us your secret, then why not take an offer of compromise? The same compromise the collector made. All we ask for is the name of one of your brethren. Nothing more.”
“Stay away from me.”
Sofie shoved the pipe toward her. “Give us a name, and this is yours. Just like old times. You can be with the ones who love you. Who love the
real
you, not this angelic monstrosity you pretend to be.”
“No,” Gabriela shouted, and swung an arm out, knocking the pipe and lighter to the floor.
Sofie watched them roll and land near the phone, then slowly lowered her head. She said nothing for a long moment. And when she spoke, there was sadness in her voice. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”
Suddenly the smell of gasoline filled the air, and Gabriela spun, saw liquid sluicing down the walls, coming down in sheets, pooling on the floor. Fumes rolled toward her and she began to choke and cough, feeling them burn her lungs.
“Give us a name, Gabriela. Now!”
“No.” She gagged. “. . . Leave me alone . . . leave me—”
Sofie’s face churned up in fury as she grabbed Gabriela by the shoulders and threw her against the nearest wall. Gabriela hit it hard and pain tore through her, gasoline pouring onto her head, soaking her hair and clothes, plastering them to her skin.
“Give us the name!” Sofia shouted, then grabbed her again, throwing her against the sink.
Gabriela slammed headfirst into the mirror, splintering the glass. A shard pierced her forehead and blood poured from the wound, mixing with the gasoline as it rolled down her face and into her mouth.
She hobbled forward, gagging and spitting. “. . . Please . . . ,” she begged, weeping now, adding tears to the mix.
But Sofie grabbed her a third time and flung her toward the toilet. Gabriela stumbled into it, landing in a heap on the floor, still coughing, barely able to breathe. She rolled onto her back, and her gaze once again went to the pipe and lighter, which lay only inches from her now, miraculously dry, untouched by the gasoline.
Tell me you love me, my angel.
And despite herself, she felt that familiar urge well up inside her again, stronger than ever.
“Give us a name,” Sofie said. “That’s all we ask. One simple name and you’ll be free.”
Gabriela tried to resist. Tried with all her might. Sent a desperate prayer up to God, but got only silence in return.
“Please,” she sobbed, “please . . . help me . . .”
But no one heard. No one was listening.
Maybe the voice had been right. God
didn’t
love her. And maybe He had been wrong to trust her. To think she was any different now than she was back then, all those nights so long ago.
What Sofie had said was true. The dust
had
made them happy. So very happy.
And what would be the harm in one small hit?
The moment Gabriela thought this, the gasoline stopped flowing, leaving behind soaked walls, puddles on the floor, and a room full of fumes.
Gabriela’s gut was churning. The dust still calling out to her.
Tell me you love me, my darling
.
Giving in, she reached out, grabbed for the pipe. But just as her fingers were about to close around it, Sofie’s rotting bare foot pressed against her hand, stopping her.
“A name,” she said. “That’s all we require.”
Defeated, drained, no longer feeling as if she had a will of her own, Gabriela sputtered and coughed again, then finally relented, giving them what they wanted, letting the name flutter through her mind like a passing bird. And the moment it did, Sofie was gone, leaving Gabriela alone with the pipe, the lighter, and her discarded phone.
Pulling herself up on her elbows, still crying, still coughing, but ever cognizant of the need burning inside her, Gabriela picked up the pipe and lighter with wet, trembling hands.
She thought of Alejandro, how devastated he’d be. She thought about how weak she truly was, and how easily she’d given in to them. Her only saving grace was that she hadn’t given them everything. Hadn’t revealed the secret she was sworn to protect.
That was something, wasn’t it?
But she knew that she could no longer be trusted with that secret. That the dust had too strong of a hold on her. And with this knowledge, she leaned forward slightly, whispering softly into her cell phone, hoping someone out there would hear her and understand.
It was time to let the Father take her now. If she couldn’t be useful to Him in this world, maybe she’d do better in His.
Anticipating sweet relief, she put the pipe to her lips, tightened her grip on the lighter and sent up one last prayer for forgiveness as she rolled her thumb against the flint wheel.
The explosion barely registered as Gabriela inhaled deeply, taking into herself that thing which had been missing from her life all these years.
It felt transcendent.
A split second later, however, when she realized that the smoke she was inhaling was no longer the narcotic she craved but the stinking, sweet essence of her own burning flesh, her final conscious thought arrived along with a searing, unbelievable pain.
That was when Gabriela Zuada started screaming.
BOOK III
 
The Boy Who Couldn’t Forget The Girl Who Couldn’t Sleep
 
Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars,
White, black, and gray, with all their trumpery.
—
Paradise Lost
, 1667 ed., III:474–75
 
 
HARRISON, LOUISIANA
 
E
very story has a hero,” he said. “Someone we invest ourselves in. But not all of those heroes are necessarily pretty. Or perfect. And I think any discussion of Milton’s masterpiece has to consider this.”
Sebastian LaLaurie squinted out at a lecture hall full of Louisiana’s so-called best and brightest, almost daring one of them to contradict him.
Nobody did.
“Look at the stories we’ve talked about these past few weeks: Moses, Miriam, David, Gideon, Elijah, Noah, Ruth . . . The Old Testament is chock-full of heroic men and women.”
A murmur of voices. Nods of agreement.
“Throw in part two of our biblical canon and you’ve got the greatest hero of them all. A simple carpenter’s son who sacrificed his life to save every last one of us.”
A chorus of amens filled the room, but Batty held up a hand, cutting them off. The last thing he wanted was to turn this lecture into some kind of revival meeting. He was here to educate, not run a cheerleading session.
He stumbled slightly and grabbed hold of the lectern to steady himself, getting a tentative ripple of laughter for his trouble.
He ignored it and pushed on. “But what if we adjust the lens a little, just like Milton did, and look at things from a slightly different angle? What if the
true
hero of Paradise is someone else entirely? Someone we traditionally think of as the villain.”

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