“It’s all strong,” I said, putting my hands to his chest.

Gabriel exhaled. “Good.”

As he crossed the floor, I saw why he’d been slow coming after me. He was limping—badly.

“You’re hurt,” I said.

He gestured at the hole in the floor. “It’s the same leg I injured before. It’s just acting up. I’m fine.”

It was doing more than acting up. Pain flashed in his eyes with each step.

“I’ll go for help,” I said.

He shook his head. “I don’t want you getting trapped again.”

“I think that’s over,” I said. “And from the looks of it, if you take another flight of stairs, you’ll end up at the bottom. Keys.”

“I can handle—”

“Give me your damn keys, Gabriel. Someone’s blocking cell service in here, and I may need to drive to get a signal. The longer you argue, the worse Ricky is going to get, and—”

He handed over the keys.

“Now sit,” I said. “There. And don’t move.”

At a pained quirk of his lips, I hesitated, and then said, “I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry if I didn’t say—”

“You don’t need to. I’m the one who’s sorry, Olivia.” He met my gaze. “For everything.”

I nodded. He looked away then, lowering himself to the floor beside Ricky and saying, “There, I’m sitting. Now go on.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

At the bottom of the steps, I hesitated. I fingered my gun and switchblade. I should have given one to Gabriel. At the very least, I should have told him to take out Ricky’s knife. He’d said something attacked Ricky, which meant we weren’t alone here.

I was considering going back up when I heard Gabriel’s voice, so distant I had to strain to pick it up.

“I know you’re there,” he said.

I slowly climbed three steps.

“Stop hiding in the shadows,” he said. “I’m not the one who sees visions and hears voices. I know you’re there. Come out.”

I quietly picked my way past the rotted steps.

“Are you sure that was me, Gabriel?” a man’s voice said. “I suspect it sounded a lot like that little inner devil you humans seem to have, the one that sits on your shoulder and whispers all the things you want to do and know you shouldn’t.”

“That’s called a conscience,” Gabriel said. “Mine might be underdeveloped, but I recognize its voice perfectly well.”

The man laughed. “No, boy. That’s not conscience. It’s cowardice. Which is much the same with your kind. You tell yourself you should not, when in truth you only dare not.”

I knew that voice. It was exactly who I expected to find here: Tristan.

I continued down the hall, painfully slowly, testing each step first, for the rotted boards and to keep silent.