Revelation (11 page)

You could have this, Genesis. All of it.
Seth's voice resonates in my head, clear, as if he's standing next to me, whispering the same, tired argument into my ear.

I pull my sleeves tighter, push the words away.

It's not enough.

F
OURTEEN

My hand finds the magazine, feeling its weight in the darkness. Its shape. Ears registering its click into place.

And then the knock.

The persistent thudding.

I rip the blindfold from my eyes, squint back brightness. A quick scan of the marina from the window reveals no immediate sign of Carter or the boat. I check the time on the microwave. He isn't due to return until dinner, and this visitor isn't going away.  

Another one-two-three knuckle against the door.

I heave a sigh, lift the leg of my jeans, cram the gun into the holster at my ankle. My bare feet pad quietly across the living room floor. Through the peephole, I see a distorted man alone in the breezeway.

You shouldn't open the door for strangers,
the voice in my head chides.

The things I'm most afraid of don't bother knocking
, I remind it.

I flip the deadbolt, turn the knob, jerk the door open.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask, unwilling to mask the irritation in my tone. Because no one who knocks for ten straight minutes deserves an ounce of civility. My foot wedges the door—preventing it from opening further—fingers poised, ready to grab the forty-five in a second. 

"Is Carter Fleming available?" The man is older. Pencil-thin. Gray suit. Glasses. Precautions are unnecessary, I realize. I could probably take him down without the gun.

"At the moment? No," I say. "Who, may I ask, is looking for him?"

The man reaches inside his coat pocket, removes a business card.
John W. Hardee, Attorney at Law
. My spine stiffens. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you Genesis?"

"Depends on who's asking."

He plucks the card from my fingers, hands it back to me.

I scoff.

What a prick.

"Well, Mr. Hardee, Attorney at Law, it's nice to meet you. Any particular reason
why
you spent the last ten minutes beating down my door?"

"I need to drop these off," he says, presenting a sizeable envelope. "Carter is expecting them, and I was told someone would be home."

"So you're Carter's attorney," I confirm.

"I'm the Fleming's attorney. Congratulations on the wedding," he continues. "I'm sorry we weren't afforded an invitation."

"Thank you. And there were no invitations. Would've ruined the surprise."

"Yes, Mr. Fleming—Carter's father, I mean—found it highly amusing."

I detect something like sarcasm in his voice. "Then I guess it's a good thing he's not the Mr. Fleming I aim to please," I counter.

A slow blush crawls up his neck, reaching his cheeks, eyes averting, adjusting his glasses. "I apologize. I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I only meant to bring Carter these papers. They're very important."

He hands me the package. Bulky. Sealed. A large CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the front. I examine the address. "
Gaineston
? We're out of the way for you, aren't we?"

"The Flemings are very important to us." He clears his throat, gathering whatever's left of his professionalism. "And, as the new Mrs. Fleming, please don't hesitate to call if there's anything we can do for you."

My eyebrow lifts, skeptical. "How about I just make sure Carter gets this and we'll call it a day."

I shut the door between us, locking it before Mr. Hardee can say anything else.

When Carter returns from the marina, cheeks and nose pink with windburn, I point to the packet on the counter. He seems pleased to see it, but, despite the curiosity pinching my skin, I don't ask what's inside. I'm not a Fleming—not really—and their business isn't my business.

I do, however, feel qualified to tell him his attorney is an ass.    

F
IFTEEN

I jerk awake, sitting upright, sweat beading off my forehead, rolling down my cheek. A shadowy figure hovers at the foot of my bed, and, as panic descends, I feel beneath my pillow, the cool of my sheets, searching for the gun. It's gone. As eyes adjust to darkness, I can distinguish the robe. Short, silvery hair.

The Council.

"What do you want?" My voice catches, squeaking the demand.

He doesn't speak, doesn't utter a sound, his arm only rises. Slowly. Until I'm staring straight into the barrel of a gun. And then, as if to answer, his finger tightens against the trigger, squeezing. I flinch, recoiling, but before I can open my mouth to scream. . . .

I jerk awake, sitting upright, sweat beading off my forehead, rolling down my cheek. The moon-brightened bedroom is empty.

I push aside the comforter, feel for the gun. It's still there, tucked beneath the pillow, exactly where I left it. I breathe relief. I'm alone. I'm alive. They haven't come to kill me. Yet.

Time passes disjointedly, both leaping and creeping as I lie still, finger on the trigger, staring at a ceiling unable to sleep. And when the first sign of morning trickles through cracks in the blinds—a soft, indigo light—I crawl out of bed and slide jeans over my hips, slip the gun into the waistband, grab keys and Carter's jacket on my way to the door, careful not to wake him.

The frigid morning air bites my cheeks and ears and nose. The sun has yet to rise. The world so blue and quiet I hear the lull of ocean waves before I reach the marina, water ebbing and flowing, kissing the sand. Wispy clouds ring the horizon. Sea grass blows in the wind. I breathe salty air, hoping it will somehow fill me. Fix me. Make me whole again. But no matter how hard I try I still feel that hollow emptiness inside. That missing piece.

I don't know how much time has passed or how far I've gone, but I turn around just as sun lightens the sky. There are others now. Older couples walking the beach. A few brave souls searching for shells. It's still early, early and freezing, town half-deserted, but they're here, lured by the ocean. Bewitched. Unable to walk away, even if they wanted to.

A guy—younger than me, fourteen or fifteen, maybe?—stands at the water's edge, gazing across the horizon and into nothing. He doesn't move as I approach, doesn't turn to face me, makes no effort to speak. He only stands there, watching the ocean as I pass. He's thin. All limbs—like a baby deer.

All limbs.

The sun spills through cracks in the clouds, casting orange and pink and lilac reflections across sand and water.

I turn, blinking back the glow of blonde hair shimmering with morning light. Our eyes meet. My heart stops.

"Joshua?" I say, so low I'm not even sure the word passes my lips. I squint, studying him, moving closer.

He turns away, frowning.

"Joshua?" I repeat, louder.

"Sorry," he says, head shaking.

But the voice.

It's him.

The realization that he doesn't recognize me strikes hard—a sucker punch to the gut. But of course he doesn't recognize me. He wouldn't. My hair. The color. "Joshua, it's me! Genesis. My hair's different, but it's Gee!"

His eyes search mine, and I wait for a flicker of recollection. But . . . there's nothing. Nothing but blank stare. Barrenness. This unknown person standing before him claiming to know him, and
wanting
to remember because maybe it would somehow make him understand this world just a little better. But then: "I'm sorry. I don't know you."

A nervous laugh. "
Of course
you know me," I say, pushing against his shoulder, trying to physically force the memory back into his body. "It's Genesis! You're 'Fists of Fury'! We trained together! I helped the Guardians!"

His face grows pale at this, lips turning white, as if I've stumbled upon something—a connection—something he understands. "How do you know about the Guardians?" he whispers.

"I know you're one of them. I know that, in an instant, I can blink and you'll be in another realm. I've
been
there. I know that if you disappeared you could still see my silhouette. I know there are angels and demons watching us. Right now."

His eyes narrow. "How do you know this?"

"Because of Seth. You
know
Seth!" I insist.

Joshua shakes his head. "I don't know anyone named Seth."

"You were best friends. You were an angel on probation."

"We're not angels . . ."

"You're Guardians," I finish, laughing, eyes watering, hysterical. "I know! You're a Guardian! You and Seth were inseparable! You knocked out your last charge! You—you pulled a chair out!" I remind him, frantic. "Don't you remember
any
of this?"

"This isn't possible," he says, head shaking in disbelief. "You shouldn't even know . . ."

"I do. I
do
know."

His cheeks flush, flustered, features twisting with confusion. "I don't—I don't
know
you!"

Prickles of anger stab my skin, rippling. And then I realize—he's telling the truth. He's not lying, making it up. He could never pretend not to know me. Or Seth.
Especially
Seth. But he knows the Guardians. "What did they do to you?" I ask, voice barely a whisper.

His eyes tear from mine, glancing around us, even while knowing what we both fear can't be seen in the material world. "I have to go."

"The Council. What did they do? What did they say to you?"

But he's already backing away from me, distancing himself, moving up the beach toward the dunes.

"Joshua, wait!" I beg.

I blink. And he's gone.

"Joshua!"

I race to the condo, running every step, taking flights of stairs two steps at a time, lungs flaming.

"Jesus Christ!" Carter shouts as I stumble inside. "Do you have
any
idea . . . ?"

"I saw him," I interrupt, ripping his jacket off, tugging at sleeves, skin slick with cold sweat. "I saw Joshua."

"What?"

I struggle to inhale, practicing even, measured breaths. "Joshua," I pant. "He's still here!"

"Do you need your inhaler?"

"He didn't even
know
me, Carter!" I continue, ignoring him. "He didn't remember any of it! He didn't remember training, or Seth. He didn't know I knew about the Guardians at all! He didn't even remember my
name
!" I swallow back the lump blocking my throat.  "It's the Council. They must have . . .
done something
to him. When they called everyone away, maybe they made them forget—everyone who had anything to do with me—to keep them from helping me." I stop, chest heaving. "We have to find Mara."