collections.’ He taps the photo of him and Jude.
‘How’s that possible?’
Rafa points to an image not far above his. ‘Look.’
The blood drains from my face. It’s a photo of me.
I’m somewhere outdoors. I’m wearing leggings and a black singlet. My feet are planted apart and I’m holding a katana over my head as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. My hair is pulled back in a plait that hangs halfway down my back.
I’m grinning at my training partner. He’s blurry, but it looks like Micah—Maggie’s guard on the mountain—and his pose matches mine. I’m never going to get used to seeing these photos of me.
‘When was this taken?’
Rafa steps closer. I can feel the heat in his skin. ‘It’s hard to tell. No landmarks. Could be two years old, could be thirty. It’s not like we age.’ He goes to the door again, presses his ear against it.
I pull a few prints down and turn them over. They’re all on the same kind of paper, home-printed, without date or brand. None are originals.
‘How do you think they got them?’
Rafa looks through the photos I hand him. ‘Someone inside the Sanctuary.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Someone had to access computers, phones and albums to get some of these.’ He points to a picture of Ez and Zak sunbaking on a beach. Ez’s skin is flawless: the shot was taken before a hellion clawed her face. ‘I took that. It’s at least a decade old. So are these surveillance shots. All they had to know is where we’d be.’ He moves on to a grainy photo of a restaurant, taken from a distance. ‘This was about a year before the big split.’
There’s a crowd around the table. Rafa, relaxed, beer halfway to his lips. Jude beside him, head thrown back, laughing. Next to him is…me. That other me. Watching Jude, grinning. Something stirs in my chest.
The back of someone’s head blocks the person next to me, but they’ve got straight red hair so it’s probably Daisy. And then…Malachi. He’s smiling—and not even in a smartarse way. I’m drawn to a blonde woman at the end of the table with dark kohl-rimmed eyes. At a table filled with beautiful people, she stands out. I tap her face with my finger, not sure if I want to ask the question or not.
‘That’s Mya,’ Rafa says and walks away. His voice sounds deliberately empty.
I look for other images of her. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. There’s something about her. Wild. Defiant. Alive. In every photo, her long hair is messy, as if she’s just woken up. I have a flash of her and Rafa in bed and immediately shut it down.
Whatever happened to tear apart the Rephaim a decade ago, she was in the middle of it. Daisy says she was the reason Rafa and Jude challenged Nathaniel’s rule and left the Sanctuary. But Ez says it was Jude who caused the split, though Mya liked to take credit for it.
Shit, this mess never gets any clearer. Even with pictures.
I take down the group photo, look around for others of Jude. But it’s not Jude my gaze falls on. It’s Nathaniel. The fallen angel is alone with his arms folded, his attention fixed on something in the distance. He’s standing among blackened ruins in a forest, his fair hair damp from rain. In real life, his irises flicker icy blue; in the image they simply look odd, glassy. He’s in old jeans and a jumper that hints at muscle underneath. Again, the contradiction surprises me: by all accounts the angel who raised the Rephaim is a tough disciplinarian, but he looks more like a footballer. I lean in closer. The image is crisp. It doesn’t look like it was taken with a telephoto lens. How did someone get close enough to take this shot?
‘You really think someone at the Sanctuary has been handing over these photos—for years?’ I ask Rafa.
He pulls the stool out from under the desk and sits on it, surveys the room. Taps his foot: a quick, impatient beat. ‘Why is that so hard to believe? Because everyone there is so obedient?’
‘No,
‘How’s that possible?’
Rafa points to an image not far above his. ‘Look.’
The blood drains from my face. It’s a photo of me.
I’m somewhere outdoors. I’m wearing leggings and a black singlet. My feet are planted apart and I’m holding a katana over my head as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. My hair is pulled back in a plait that hangs halfway down my back.
I’m grinning at my training partner. He’s blurry, but it looks like Micah—Maggie’s guard on the mountain—and his pose matches mine. I’m never going to get used to seeing these photos of me.
‘When was this taken?’
Rafa steps closer. I can feel the heat in his skin. ‘It’s hard to tell. No landmarks. Could be two years old, could be thirty. It’s not like we age.’ He goes to the door again, presses his ear against it.
I pull a few prints down and turn them over. They’re all on the same kind of paper, home-printed, without date or brand. None are originals.
‘How do you think they got them?’
Rafa looks through the photos I hand him. ‘Someone inside the Sanctuary.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Someone had to access computers, phones and albums to get some of these.’ He points to a picture of Ez and Zak sunbaking on a beach. Ez’s skin is flawless: the shot was taken before a hellion clawed her face. ‘I took that. It’s at least a decade old. So are these surveillance shots. All they had to know is where we’d be.’ He moves on to a grainy photo of a restaurant, taken from a distance. ‘This was about a year before the big split.’
There’s a crowd around the table. Rafa, relaxed, beer halfway to his lips. Jude beside him, head thrown back, laughing. Next to him is…me. That other me. Watching Jude, grinning. Something stirs in my chest.
The back of someone’s head blocks the person next to me, but they’ve got straight red hair so it’s probably Daisy. And then…Malachi. He’s smiling—and not even in a smartarse way. I’m drawn to a blonde woman at the end of the table with dark kohl-rimmed eyes. At a table filled with beautiful people, she stands out. I tap her face with my finger, not sure if I want to ask the question or not.
‘That’s Mya,’ Rafa says and walks away. His voice sounds deliberately empty.
I look for other images of her. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. There’s something about her. Wild. Defiant. Alive. In every photo, her long hair is messy, as if she’s just woken up. I have a flash of her and Rafa in bed and immediately shut it down.
Whatever happened to tear apart the Rephaim a decade ago, she was in the middle of it. Daisy says she was the reason Rafa and Jude challenged Nathaniel’s rule and left the Sanctuary. But Ez says it was Jude who caused the split, though Mya liked to take credit for it.
Shit, this mess never gets any clearer. Even with pictures.
I take down the group photo, look around for others of Jude. But it’s not Jude my gaze falls on. It’s Nathaniel. The fallen angel is alone with his arms folded, his attention fixed on something in the distance. He’s standing among blackened ruins in a forest, his fair hair damp from rain. In real life, his irises flicker icy blue; in the image they simply look odd, glassy. He’s in old jeans and a jumper that hints at muscle underneath. Again, the contradiction surprises me: by all accounts the angel who raised the Rephaim is a tough disciplinarian, but he looks more like a footballer. I lean in closer. The image is crisp. It doesn’t look like it was taken with a telephoto lens. How did someone get close enough to take this shot?
‘You really think someone at the Sanctuary has been handing over these photos—for years?’ I ask Rafa.
He pulls the stool out from under the desk and sits on it, surveys the room. Taps his foot: a quick, impatient beat. ‘Why is that so hard to believe? Because everyone there is so obedient?’
‘No,
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