If the Darkness Had Wings

By Isa Ingram

Cassie Clarke thought her life was perfect. She had a successful career in her family’s San Francisco art gallery, and a boyfriend that any girl would swoon over. But with one tantalizing smile, Chavela Castillo throws Cassie’s life into complete chaos.



It’s more than the fact that Chavela is sexy, poised and confident, or that her smile sets Cassie's blood on fire from across the room. She has a depth of being that Cassie has never encountered before; a depth that invites Cassie to look at everything in her life, including herself, with new eyes.



Cassie begins to see how paper-thin her life actually is, and she discovers that she doesn’t just want more of Chavela; she wants more of herself. Soon, Cassie finds herself swept up in a whirlwind of passion, leading her down dark corridors and moonlit streets, and into the sacred depths of her own soul.



Cassie senses the danger, lurking just out of sight, threatening to swallow her whole if she veers too far from the light. But she doesn’t care. As the darkness looms ever larger, she plunges ahead, unwilling to let go of the burning passion that threatens to consume her. Unwilling to turn away from her heart, even if it means embracing the terrifying truth of who, or rather what, Chavela really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781662947926

Book preview

Chapter One

IPEERED THROUGH the glass door of the coffee shop, quietly cursing under my breath. The air was heavy with rain, the clouds ominously dark. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten an umbrella today of all days. We were premiering a new art exhibition at my family’s gallery that night, and I couldn’t afford to get my hair wet. With a disgruntled sigh, I barreled out onto the sidewalk, holding a newspaper up over my head as the first drops began to fall. Luckily, the gallery was just two blocks down Fillmore, and I arrived before it started to pour.

Hearing the door open, my mother poked her head over the second-floor railing. Is that you, Cassie?

Just got back, I said, as I peeled out of my coat.

My mother came halfway down the staircase, eyeing my rain-splattered newspaper. She glanced towards the wall of windows. Is the storm already here?

Don’t worry, Mom. Not everyone in San Francisco walks. I’m sure we’ll have a good turnout.

She frowned, her fingers drumming anxiously on the banister. I hope so. For Frederick’s sake.

Frederick was the painter whose work we were showcasing that night. He was a friend of my mom’s. Though she’d never even remotely hinted at it, I had long wondered if he had been an old flame of hers, from the years before she met my dad.

Outside, a rumble of thunder sounded, and I forced a false smile on my face. It’ll be fine. Have the caterers come by yet?

Oh, yes. That’s what I was coming down to tell you. Roxanne called to say they were on their way.

I held a finger up, shaking my head. Don’t start with me, Mother!

What? I didn’t say anything.

But you were going to.

Miffed, my mother stood up a little taller, her grey ringlets softly bouncing. I don’t know what you’re talking about, she said stiffly.

You were going to say that we should have gone with a different caterer. You say it every time.

Of course I wasn’t going to say that! She’s your friend, and I wouldn’t dream of it. She paused, clearly wanting to say more. I just don’t see why she’s always pushing the time, that’s all.

Willing myself not to roll my eyes, I watched as she turned around and slowly mounted the stairs.

I’ll be with your father, she said.

I was hanging my coat on the rack when Roxanne came trotting into the room, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her round face had a faint sheen of water on it, and she wiped at her brow, grinning sheepishly when her sneakers squeaked on the tiles.

You need help? I asked.

That’d be great. Kyle called out sick, so I’m down a guy. Is Grant with you?

I shook my head. You know how he is about his practice games.

They’re playing in this? she said incredulously.

I nodded. Rain or shine.

I can’t believe he’s not here to help, she said. It’s a big night for you.

I shrugged, following after her. We’re pretty much all set.

My boyfriend, Grant, lived for baseball, and had ever since he was a little boy. His father had passed away when he was only five, and for a full year he hadn’t said a single word. It was his grandfather who had broken him out of his silence, teaching him how to throw and catch a baseball in the backyard. Eventually, he started taking Grant to see the Giants play. It was always just the two of them, usually sitting high in the stands because those were the best seats his grandfather could afford. But Grant loved it. He loved the smells, and the sounds, and the slow tension of a long game. But most of all, he loved spending time with his grandfather. Last year, his grandfather had passed away, and Grant had snuck a baseball in the casket, the one he’d first learned to play catch with nearly twenty-five years before. There was no way I was going to pull him away from practice, even if he only played in an amateur league. Not even for the biggest premier we’d had in years.

I glanced around, smiling with pride. We had spent days figuring out the best layout for the paintings, and I thought they looked beautiful. There was one in particular that always caught my eye; I had wanted to hang it in the center of the room, but my mother had insisted on showing it in one of the more secluded corners. Roxanne passed through into the next room, but I lingered, my gaze seeking that corner, and the painting that caught at my heart. It was of a woman standing at a window, but she wasn’t looking outside; her eyes were closed, and her head was tilted up towards the sky. A ray of sunlight passed in through the window, falling across her face and neck, while the rest of the room lay in shadow. There was something raw and intimate about her expression, like she was drinking in the touch of a lover, allowing the sunlight to pour deep into her soul. It captivated me, and for a moment I forgot where I was going.

Are you coming? Roxanne shouted from outside.

I grimaced, hoping my mother hadn’t heard. The gallery wouldn’t be open for a couple more hours, but still, I knew how she felt about raised voices. I hastened out into the alley, anxious that Roxanne not yell again. The rain was still falling pretty hard, and I waited under the overhang, helping to carry in the heavy platters.

You want them in the usual places? she asked.

Yeah. And the wine too. Did you remember the chardonnay?

She gave me a wide grin, unconcerned that she was getting drenched. I only made that mistake once.

Yeah, well.

Never fear—I brought it. Who’s bartending anyways?

Why? Are you coming?

She looked pointedly away, her ears turning pink. Maybe, she said.

Denise.

Still looking away, she set the platter carefully down. I probably won’t come, she mumbled.

I laughed. She’s single, you know.

Roxanne was arranging the plates on the white tablecloth, but paused to look up. Really?

I nodded solemnly. I think you should come. If only just to offer your support as a patron of the arts.

She grinned and stood back to inspect the table. Well then, maybe I’ll come, she said.

I bumped against her shoulder. It would be nice to have you at the opening. I mean, I actually would really appreciate it.

Of course I’ll come. I was going to anyways.

I hooked my arm through hers. No, you weren’t.

She laughed. You’re right. I wasn’t. But it’s going to be a big deal for you, right? I mean, you’re going to have a reporter here and everything.

And Denise too.

She grinned again. And Denise too. Shit, I don’t know what to wear! What kind of girls does she like? Butch? Femme?

Sheesh, I don’t know! How would I know something like that?

She gave me an appraising look. You’re right. I forgot who I was talking to.

Just don’t wear anything too risqué, I said. You know how my mom is.

Not too keen on the queers, Roxanne said matter-of-factly.

I frowned. You know she likes you just fine.

Roxanne looked away. I know. But she would like me a whole lot more if I was more like you.

I let go of her arm and took a step back. But I’m queer too, I said indignantly.

"Oh come on, Cassie. Kissing a girl in college does not make you queer. It just makes you curious. You know that at the end of the day you would never actually consider making a life with a woman."

I rubbed at my arm and looked away. That’s not true, I said. But my voice faltered, and we both knew she was right.

Anyways, she said. Don’t worry about it! You have Grant. So why even talk about it?

I forced myself to smile. You’re right. Why even talk about it?

Behind us, the guys had finished unloading the wine. The table looked sharp, the plates ornately decorated with small sandwiches and cream cookies, while vases brimming with tulips were scattered amongst them. Roxanne always did think of everything.

You better get going, I said, if you’re going to have time to get dressed.

She glanced at her watch, her eyebrows shooting up. Shit, you’re right! I still have to drop the van back at the shop.

She gave me a quick hug, completely forgetting that she was wet and I was wearing a designer dress, and dashed back out into the rain. I watched after her, slightly shaken by our exchange. Did she really think of me like that? Like someone who played at being open-minded, but was just faking it? I turned away, making my way to the office upstairs.

THE GALLERY WAS packed with visitors, some gazing at the paintings, while others were huddled in clumps throughout the three rooms, conversing over their plastic cups of wine. Frederick, usually so taciturn, was talking animatedly to a group of art students, discussing the merits of some style of brushwork. I smiled as I watched him, endeared at the way he opened up about art, but nothing else. The reporter was interviewing my mom at the far end of the room, and a photographer was floating around, taking pictures of the crowd, with the art pieces hanging in the background.

Grant had gone to get me a glass of wine, and I watched as he made his way back through the throng. He was tall and broad, and moved with the ease of an athlete. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, and glistened under the lights. He was wearing the outfit that I had picked out for him—a dark blue suit, with a white button-up shirt that was open at the collar. He grinned as he handed me my cup, leaning over for a swift kiss on my cheek.

Here you go, my dear.

My knight, I said playfully.

You weren’t kidding about Roxanne crushing on that bartender, he remarked.

Is she still pretending to look at the painting?

The one directly next to the bar? Yes.

I peeked over his shoulder, squinting through the crowd. I really should go help her, I said.

He took my hand, twirling me around so that I was looking the other way. I don’t think so. This night is about you, and the gallery, and Frederick. Roxanne will be fine on her own.

But I’m the one that told her to come!

Well, who knows? Give it another hour, and a couple more glasses of wine, and she might build up the courage to say something.

I smiled and rested my hand against the side of his cheek. That’s how it was with us.

Exactly, he said. Awkward moments can’t be rushed.

I arched an eyebrow. Are you saying it was awkward?

He grinned and took a sip of wine before answering. "You weren’t awkward. But I nearly turned around three times before I got up the nerve to speak to you. And then I spilled my drink all over the table, remember?"

I smiled at the memory. Somehow I thought you were charming. Not awkward.

Thankfully, he said. He lifted my hand to his lips, smiling as he kissed my knuckle. Now, don’t you have people to talk to?

I suppose. What are you going to do?

Look at the art, of course! And rescue you from any conversations that you need rescuing from.

I’m glad you’re here, I said.

Me too. Now go sell some art. He stepped back, twirling me once around before releasing my hand.

I maneuvered through a cluster of people, sidling up next to a middle-aged woman who was looking at a painting. We talked for a while about the inspiration for the piece, and then I moved on, slowly making my way through the crowd, alert for the next person who seemed interested in talking about the paintings. Depending on the piece bought, a single sale could keep the gallery in business for a month, and so every exchange mattered.

The art business was gratifying to me in so many ways. I loved talking about the process of making art, and all the layers of skill and feeling that went into it. I loved sharing the pieces that I found beautiful with others. And I loved hearing about the unexpected ways that art helped people access parts of themselves, acting as a reflection of something essential within them.

I’d been officially working at the gallery for the past five years. My parents had opened it before I was even born—my mother used to tell me stories about how she would breastfeed me upstairs in the office during exhibit openings. It had been my home, my sustenance, for as long as I could remember. When I went away to college, to study art at NYU, I had briefly thought that I’d stay in New York for graduate school, or maybe go to Europe, to pursue art history, or maybe even become an artist myself. But that was a short-lived fantasy, and in the end coming back to San Francisco was the best decision I could have made. It had taken a minute to come to peace with it, but once I did, I realized that taking my place in the family business was what I had wanted to do all along.

The night was going great. There had been no hiccups, not even with the storm and the coat check up at the front. People were happy, and connecting in ways that felt meaningful and exciting. Even Grant, who I knew was usually bored at these events, had found a group of guys to talk about baseball with. He hadn’t even thought to check on me for over half an hour. I had sold a handful of paintings, and I felt the potential for a couple more before night’s end. The evening was a success, and I stood back, watching the room with pride. My belly was warm with wine, and my skin tingled with pleasure. Everything felt perfect. And it was then that I saw her.

She was standing in the corner, by herself, looking at the painting of the woman with sunlight on her face. She wore a sleeveless red dress with a basque waistline, the hem just grazing the tops of her suede leather boots. Her black wavy hair tumbled down her back, while her brown skin seemed to glow with a faint golden undertone. Sensing my gaze on her, she glanced over, fixing me with her dark, almond-shaped eyes. There was something electric in her stare; something that cut right through me, like a crack of lightning on a quiet night. I felt a shiver roll up my spine, making me shudder as it flitted across my shoulders. Normally, I would have nodded or smiled, but my mind had gone blank, and it was all I could do not to drop my wine cup. She held my gaze for a moment, her lips slightly curled in a smile that was not meant for me, before turning back to the painting.

I don’t even know why I walked over. All thought of art had escaped me. I didn’t know what I was going to say, or what my intention was in approaching her. All I knew was that something compelled me forward, like the sunlight in the painting. It pulled at my insides, and there was nothing I could do to stop myself. I stepped up alongside her, my gaze likewise focused on the painting. My heart hammered in my chest, wild and urgent like a horse galloping in the night. Though I was looking at the painting, it was her face I longed to see.

I can remember loving sunlight like that, she said.

Her voice was rich and deep, with a faint Spanish accent that rippled through the air.

Do you not love it now? I asked.

I can’t bear it.

I turned to look at her, and my breath caught in my throat. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, with full lips, delicately shaped ears, and a strong, determined face. Her shoulders were thrust casually back, exuding an ease of confidence that was arresting.

I can’t imagine not liking the sun, I said. How long have you felt that way?

She inhaled deeply, her gaze still trained on the woman in the painting, before exhaling heavily. For more years than I can count. She paused, closing her eyes as the faint smile returned to her lips. I can remember standing on the shore as a little girl, and feeling the warm sun on my face. It made me feel like I could trust my place in the world.

She opened her eyes and turned to me. Again, I felt her gaze cut right to the center of me, making me feel raw and exposed. I felt the urge to wrap my arms around myself, but couldn’t move. All I could do was hold her gaze, my breath coming up ragged and short as her eyes poured into me.

I’ve never felt like that, I said quietly.

Not once? she said.

No.

Not even with—your boyfriend?

How did you… I trailed off, unconcerned with how she knew anything about me. Somehow, it didn’t matter. No. Not even with him, I said.

Hmmm, she said, as she turned back to the painting.

Where are you from? I asked.

Mexico, she said. I was born in Oaxaca, in a small mountain village not far from the coast. And you? Where are you from?

From here. From San Francisco.

She looked slowly around. And this is your gallery?

My family’s.

She nodded towards the painting. And this is your favorite piece?

How did you… Again, I trailed off, my head cocked to one side.

She smiled, and I felt my stomach do a flip. This time, her smile felt like it was for me.

Because you long to feel the sunlight, she said, pausing as she nodded towards the painting, as she does.

Without another word, she turned and walked away. I took a half step after her, but stopped myself. I didn’t want her to go, but how could I possibly ask her to stay? I watched as she passed through the crowd, an unfamiliar ache growing in my chest. She stopped at the coat check, and only as she was wrapping a long black cloak around her shoulders did she finally glance back at me. Again, her lips slightly curled at the edges, as if she carried some delicious secret, her dark eyes dancing. And then she stepped out into the night and was gone.

THAT NIGHT, WHEN I finally got home, I stood in the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror, and wondering what the woman had seen when she had looked at me. I knew I was pretty, but not exactly what my mom would term elegant. My brown hair fell just past my shoulders, and was often disheveled, no matter how I tried to tend to it. My greyish-blue eyes were softly inquisitive, somehow both shy and forward at the same time. And my lips seemed to have a mind of their own, always giving away my feelings before I’d had time to process them myself.

I sighed and turned away from the mirror. Grant was waiting in the other room, yawning loudly to let me know how tired he was. I had hinted that I wanted to sleep alone tonight, and that he should probably just head back to his place, but he obviously hadn’t understood.

I hesitated behind the closed door, my hand pressed against the frame. There was nothing really to tell him. My heart had raced in the presence of another. But he would just laugh it off if I told him that, especially given that it had been for another woman. I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the wood. Why was I even thinking about this? Of course I wouldn’t see her again. I didn’t even know her name. I raised my chin resolutely, eyeing the door with determination, and stepped out into my bedroom.

Finally finished? he said.

I plopped down into bed, quickly sliding under the covers and curling up next to him. Yes, I said.

Good. I’m exhausted. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulling me even closer.

I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of his skin, telling myself that this was home, that this was real.

Just then, the phone rang. We both glanced at the clock; it was nearly midnight. He looked at me, his eyes narrowed.

Who could that be? he said.

I stretched out to get the phone, quickly accepting the call.

Cassie?

Mom? What is it?

Oh, good. You haven’t gone to bed yet.

Almost. Is something wrong?

No, nothing’s wrong. I just was hoping to catch you. It’s about a delivery.

Mom, it’s late. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?

Are you still going up the coast with Grant tomorrow? she asked.

We were planning on it. But why? Do you need me for something?

Well, it’s that painting you love, darling. The one with the woman in the sunlight.

I nearly dropped the phone. My heart began to hammer, my mind zooming back to that moment in the gallery when I had first laid eyes on her. Somehow I knew what my mother was going to say before she said it.

What about it, Mom?

Someone bought it tonight, and they’d like it delivered tomorrow. They insisted that you be the one to do it.

Who bought it?

A woman. Her name is Chavela Castillo. I just got off the phone with her.

I closed my eyes, slowly saying her name in my head. Chavela Castillo. Chavela.

Cassie? Are you still there?

I’m here, Mom.

Well, can you do it?

I can do it. Where does she live?

In Pacific Heights, near the Presidio.

Did she say what time?

Just after sunset.

I smiled, unconsciously gripping the phone