Saving Raphael Santiago tbc-6 Page 3

  The moonlight poured in on Raphael, bleaching his face so he looked like a marble statue of a saint who had died young.

  “Either you still have your souls,” said Raphael, “or you never had them, and you do not know what it is to wander the world damned, exiled, and missing them forever.”

  Magnus put his hairbrush down. “All Downworlders have souls,” he said. “It’s what makes us different from demons.”

  Raphael sneered. “That is a Nephilim belief.”

  “So what?” Magnus said. “Sometimes they’re right.”

  Raphael said something unkind in Spanish. “They think they are such saviors, the cazadores de sombras,” he said. “The Shadowhunters. Yet they have never come to save me.”

  Magnus looked at the boy silently. He had never been able to argue against his stepfather’s convictions regarding what God wanted or God judged. He did not know how to convince Raphael that he might still have a soul.

  “I see you’re trying to distract me from the real point here,” Magnus said instead. “You had a birthday—a perfect excuse for me to throw one of my famous parties—and you didn’t even tell me about it?”

  Raphael stared at him silently, then turned and walked away.

  Magnus had often thought of getting a pet, but he had never considered acquiring a sullen teenage vampire. Once Raphael was gone, he thought, he was getting a cat. And he would always throw his cat a birthday party.

  It was soon afterward that Raphael wore a cross around his neck, all night, without crying out or exhibiting any visible signs of discomfort. At the end of the night, when he removed it, there was a faint mark against his chest, as of a long-healed burn, but that was all.

  “So that’s it,” Magnus said. “That’s great. You’re done! Let’s go visit your mother.”

  He had sent her a message telling her not to worry and not to visit, that he was using all the magic he could to save Raphael and could not be disturbed, but he knew it would not keep her away forever.

  Raphael’s expression was blank as he fiddled with the chain in one hand, his only sign of uncertainty. “No,” he said. “How many times are you going to underestimate me? I’m not done. I’m not even close.”

  He explained to Magnus what he wanted to do next.

  “You are doing a good deal to help me,” Raphael said the next night as they approached the graveyard. His voice was almost clinical.

  Magnus thought but did not say, Yes, because there were times when I was as desperate as you, and as miserable, and as convinced that I had no soul. People had helped him when he’d needed it, because he had needed it and for no other reason. He remembered the Silent Brothers coming for him in Madrid, and teaching him that there was still a way to live.

  “You don’t need to be grateful,” Magnus said instead. “I’m not doing it for you.”

  Raphael shrugged, a fluid easy gesture. “All right, then.”

  “I mean, you could be grateful occasionally,” Magnus said. “You could tidy up the apartment once in a while.”

  Raphael considered this. “No, I don’t think I will.”

  “I think your mother should have beaten you,” said Magnus. “Frequently.”

  “My father hit me once, back in Zacatecas,” Raphael said casually.

  Raphael had not mentioned a father before, and Guadalupe had not mentioned a husband, though Magnus knew there were several brothers.

  “He did?” Magnus tried to make his voice both neutral and encouraging, in case Raphael wanted to confide in him.

  Raphael, not the confiding type, looked amused. “He didn’t hit me twice.”

  It was a small graveyard, secluded and far away in Queens, hemmed in by tall and dark buildings, one warehouse and one abandoned Victorian home. Magnus had arranged for the area to be sprinkled with holy water, blessed, and made sacred. Churches were hallowed ground but graveyards not so.

  All vampires had to be buried somewhere, and had to rise.

  It would not provide a barrier like the Institute of the Shadowhunters, but it would be hard enough for Raphael to rest his foot on the ground.

  It was another test. Raphael had promised not to do more than touch his foot to the ground.

  Raphael had promised.

  When Raphael lifted his chin, like a horse taking a bit between its teeth, and charged right onto the holy ground, running and burning and screaming, Magnus wondered how he could ever have believed him.

  “Raphael!” he shouted, and ran after him, into the darkness and onto the sacred earth.

  Raphael sprang onto a gravestone, landed balanced on it. His curly hair was blown back from his thin face, his body arched, his fingers clawed against the marble edge. His teeth were bared from vicious tip to gum, and his eyes were black and lifeless. He looked like a revenant, a nightmare rearing up from a grave. Less human, with less of a soul, than any savage beast.

  He leaped. Not at Magnus but at the perimeter of the graveyard. He came out on the other side.

  Magnus chased after him. Raphael was swaying, leaning against the low stone wall as if he could barely stay on his feet. The skin on his arms was visibly bubbling. He looked as if he wanted to claw off the rest of his skin in agony but did not have the strength.

  “Well, you did it,” Magnus remarked. “By which I mean you almost gave me a heart attack. Don’t stop now. The night is young. What are you going to do to upset me next?”

  Raphael glanced up at him and grinned. It was not a nice expression.

  “I am going to do the same thing again.”

  Magnus supposed he had asked for that.

  When Raphael had run through the holy ground again not once but ten times, he leaned against the wall looking worn and spent, and while he was too weak to run, he leaned against the wall and murmured to himself, choking at first and then getting the word out, the name of God.

  He choked up blood as he said it, coughed, and kept murmuring. “Dios.”

  Magnus bore the sight of him, too weak to stand and still hurting himself, as long as he could.

  “Raphael, don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

  Predictably, Raphael glared at him. “No.”

  “You have forever to learn how to do this and how to control yourself. You have—”

  “But they don’t !” Raphael burst out. “Dios, do you understand nothing? The only thing I have left is the hope of seeing them, of not breaking my mother’s heart. I need to convince her. I need to do it perfectly, and I need to do it soon, while she still hopes that I am alive.”

  He had spoken “Dios” almost without flinching that time.

  “You’re being very good.”

  “It is no longer possible for me to be good,” Raphael said, his voice steely. “If I were still good and brave, I would do what my mother would want if she knew the truth. I would walk out into the sun and end my own life. But I am a selfish, wicked, heartless beast, and I do not want to burn in the fires of Hell yet. I want to go see my m-mother, and I will. I will. I will!”

  Magnus nodded. “What if God could help you?” he asked gently.

  It was as close as he could get to saying, What if everything you believe is wrong and you could still be loved and still be forgiven?

  Raphael shook his head stubbornly.

  “I am one of the Night Children. I am no longer a child of His, no longer under His watchful eye.

  God will not help me,” Raphael said, his voice thick, speaking through a mouthful of blood. He spat the blood out again. “And God will not stop me.”

  Magnus did not argue with him again. Raphael was still so young in so many ways, and his whole world had shattered around him. All he had left to make sense of the world were his beliefs, and he would cling to them even if his very beliefs told him that he was hopelessly lost, damned, and dead already.

  Magnus did not even know if it would be right to try to take those beliefs away.

  That night when Magnus was sleeping, he woke and heard the low, fervent
murmur of Raphael’s voice. Magnus had heard people praying many times and recognized the sound. He heard the names, unfamiliar names, and wondered if they had been Raphael’s friends. Then he heard the name Guadalupe, the name of Raphael’s mother, and he knew the other names had to be the names of Raphael’s brothers.

  As mortals called on God, on angels and saints, as they chanted while telling their rosary, Raphael was pronouncing the only names that were sacred to him and would not burn his tongue to utter.

  Raphael was calling on his family.

  There were many drawbacks to having Raphael as a roommate that did not concern Raphael’s conviction that he was a damned lost soul, or even the fact that Raphael used up so much soap in the shower (even though he never sweated and hardly needed to shower so often) and never did the washing up. When Magnus pointed this out, Raphael responded that he never ate food and was therefore not creating any washing up, which was just like Raphael.

  One more drawback became apparent the day that Ragnor Fell, High Warlock of London and perpetual enormous green thorn in Magnus’s side, came by to pay an unexpected visit.

  “Ragnor, this is a welcome surprise,” said Magnus, flinging the door open wide.

  “I was paid by some Nephilim to make the trip,” said Ragnor. “They wished for a spell.”

  “And my waiting list was too long.” Magnus nodded sadly. “I am in great demand.”

  “And you constantly give the Shadowhunters lip, so they all dislike you, save a few wayward rebellious souls,” said Ragnor. “How many times have I told you, Magnus? Behave professionally in a professional setting. Which means no being rude to Nephilim, and also no getting attached to Nephilim.”

  “I never get attached to Nephilim!” Magnus protested.

  Ragnor coughed, and in the midst of the cough said something that sounded like “blerondale.”

  “Well,” said Magnus. “Hardly ever.”

  “No getting attached to the Nephilim,” Ragnor repeated sternly. “Speak respectfully to your clients and give them the service they wish for as well as the magic. And save incivility for your friends.

  Talking of which, I have not seen you in this age, and you look even more of a horror than you usually do.”

  “That’s a filthy lie,” said Magnus.

  He knew he looked extremely sharp. He was wearing an amazing brocade tie.

  “Who is at the door?” Raphael’s imperious voice drifted from the bathroom, and the rest of Raphael came with it, dressed in a towel but looking just as critical as ever. “I told you that you have to start keeping regular business hours, Bane.”

  Ragnor squinted over at Raphael. Raphael looked balefully back at Ragnor. There was a certain tension in the air.

  “Oh, Magnus,” said Ragnor, and he covered his eyes with one large green hand. “Oh no, no.”

  “What?” said Magnus, puzzled.

  Ragnor abruptly lowered his hand. “No, you’re right, of course. I’m being silly. He’s a vampire.

  He only looks fourteen. How old are you? I bet you’re older than either of us, ha-ha.”

  Raphael looked at Ragnor as if he were mad. Magnus found it quite refreshing to have someone else looked at that way for a change.

  “I’d be sixteen by now,” he said slowly.

  “Oh, Magnus!” Ragnor wailed. “That’s disgusting! How could you? Have you lost your mind?”

  “What?” Magnus asked again.

  “We agreed eighteen was the cutoff age,” said Ragnor. “You, I, and Catarina made a vow.”

  “A v— Oh, wait. You think I’m dating Raphael?” Magnus asked. “Raphael? That’s ridiculous.

  That’s—”

  “That’s the most revolting idea I’ve ever heard.”

  Raphael’s voice rang out to the ceiling. Probably people in the street could hear him.

  “That’s a little strong,” said Magnus. “And, frankly, hurtful.”

  “And if I did wish to indulge in unnatural pursuits—and let me be clear, I certainly do not,” Raphael continued scornfully, “as if I would choose him. Him! He dresses like a maniac, acts like a fool, and makes worse jokes than the man people throw rotten eggs at outside the Dew Drop every Saturday.”

  Ragnor began to laugh.

  “Better men than you have begged for a chance to win all this,” Magnus muttered. “They have fought duels in my honor. One man fought a duel for my honor, but that was a little embarrassing since it is long gone.”

  “Do you know he spends hours in the bathroom sometimes?” Raphael announced mercilessly. “He wastes actual magic on his hair. On his hair!”

  “I love this kid,” said Ragnor.

  Of course he did. Raphael was filled with grave despair about the world in general, was eager to insult Magnus in particular, and had a tongue as sharp as his teeth. Raphael was obviously Ragnor’s soul mate.

  “Take him,” Magnus suggested. “Take him far, far away.”

  Instead Ragnor took a chair, and Raphael got dressed and joined him at the table.

  “Let me tell you another thing about Bane,” Raphael began.

  “I’m going out,” Magnus announced. “I’d describe what I’m going to do when I go out, but I find it hard to believe that either of you would understand the concept of ‘enjoying a good time with a group of entertaining companions.’ I do not intend to return until you people are done insulting your charming host.”

  “So you’re moving out and giving me the apartment?” Raphael asked. “I accept.”

  “Someday that smart mouth is going to get you into a lot of trouble,” Magnus called darkly over his shoulder.

  “Look who’s talking,” said Ragnor.

  “Hello?” said Raphael, as laconic as usual. “Damned soul.”

  Worst roommate ever.

  Ragnor stayed for thirteen days. They were the longest thirteen days of Magnus’s life. Every time Magnus tried to have a little fun, there they were, the short one and the green one, shaking their heads in tandem and then saying snotty things. On one occasion Magnus turned his head very quickly and saw them exchanging a fist bump.

  “Write to me,” Ragnor said to Raphael when he was leaving. “Or call me on your telephone if you want. I know the youths like that.”

  “It was great to meet you, Ragnor,” said Raphael. “I was beginning to think all warlocks were completely useless.”

  It was not long after Ragnor left that Magnus tried to recall the last time Raphael had drunk blood.

  Magnus had always avoided thinking about how Camille got her meals, even when he’d loved her, and he did not want to see Raphael kill again. But he saw Raphael’s skin tone change, saw the strained look about his mouth, and thought about getting this far and having Raphael shrivel up out of sheer despair.

  “Raphael, I don’t know quite how to put this, but are you eating right?” Magnus asked. “Until recently you were a growing boy.”

  “El hambre agudiza el ingenio,” said Raphael.

  Hunger sharpens the wit.

  “Good proverb,” said Magnus. “However, like most proverbs, it sounds wise and yet does not actually clarify anything.”

  “Do you think I would permit myself to be around my mother—around my small brothers—if I were not sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could control myself?” Raphael said. “I want to know that if I were trapped in a room with one of them, if I had not tasted blood in days, I could control myself.”

  Raphael almost killed another man that night, in front of Magnus’s eyes. He proved his point.

  Magnus did not have to worry about Raphael starving himself out of pity, or mercy, or any softer feeling for the rest of humanity. Raphael did not consider himself a part of humanity anymore and thought he could commit any sin in the world because he was already damned. He had simply been abstaining from drinking blood to prove to himself that he could, to test his own limits, and to exercise the absolute self-control that he was determined to achieve.

  The next night Raphael
ran over sacred ground and then calmly drank blood from a tramp sleeping on the street who might never wake up, despite the healing spell Magnus whispered over him. They were walking through the night, Raphael calculating out loud how much longer it would take him to become as strong as he needed to be.

  “I think you’re fairly strong,” said Magnus. “And you have quite a lot of self-control. Look how you sternly repress all the hero worship you are longing to show me that you feel.”

  “It is sometimes an exercise of real self-control not to laugh in your face,” Raphael said gravely.

  “That much is true.”

  It was then that Raphael stiffened, and when Magnus made an inquiring sound, Raphael hushed him sharply. Magnus looked down at Raphael’s dark eyes and followed the direction in which they were fixed. He didn’t know what Raphael was casting an eyeball at, but he figured it was no harm to follow him when Raphael moved.

  There was an alley stretching behind an abandoned Automat. In the shadows there was a rustling that could have been rats in garbage, but as they drew closer, Magnus could hear what had attracted Raphael: the sound of giggling, and the sound of sucking, and the whimpers of pain.

  He was not sure what Raphael was doing, but he had no plans to abandon him now. Magnus clicked his fingers, and there was light—radiating from his hand, filling the alleyway with brightness, and falling onto the faces of the four vampires in front of him, and their victim.

  “What do you people think you’re doing?” Raphael demanded.

  “What does it look like?” said the only girl of the group. Magnus recognized her as the lone brave soul who had accosted him at the Hotel Dumont. “We’re drinking blood. What, are you new?”

  “Is that what you were doing?” Raphael asked in a voice of exaggerated surprise. “So sorry. That must have escaped my attention, since I was preoccupied with how incredibly stupid you were all being.”

  “Stupid?” echoed the girl. “Do you mean ‘wrong’? Are you lecturing us on—” Raphael clicked his fingers impatiently at her. “Do I mean ‘wrong’?” he said. “We’re all dead and damned already. What would ‘wrong’ even mean to beings like us?”

  The girl tilted her head and looked thoughtful.