Revelation (14 page)

Carter's shirt dangles from an open drawer. I take it, feel the smooth fabric against my skin, lift it to my nose. Cedar. Like the drawers. I lift another. And another. But not one shirt or sweater or sock smells anything like him.

He can't be gone already.
Something
must still smell like him. I rip clothes from the dresser, the closet, hurl them across the room, chest compressing, aching with grief.  

It's impossible to sleep.

I move from the couch to the bed to the floor and back again, until the sun rises and I quit. I microwave a bowl of macaroni and cheese and crash after lunch, waking in time to watch the sun set. Another bowl of macaroni, and ten straight hours of late night programming and infomercials.

I don't know what to do.

Carter's mom calls—just checking in—after a week. Asks if everything is okay.

It's fine
, I lie.

She's also
fine
, but I can tell she needs someone to talk to—someone who maybe knows Carter like she did, and, even though we were only married a month, that person is somehow me. And so I listen. When she invites me to Sunday brunch I decline, but then I feel guilty for turning her down and spend another sleepless night sure I've offended her. I want her to call back, because maybe I need to talk to someone, too.

The food runs out, forcing me to leave the apartment. I grab the spare key from my wallet and head downstairs. Carter's SUV is parked exactly where he left it the day he went out and never returned. Cold air pinches my skin as I shuffle toward it, wrestling regret with every step. I climb inside anyway, and this . . .
this
smells like him. Like he was here only seconds before. Like he never left at all.

My fingers glide across frozen leather steering wheel, breath fogging. Even after sitting idle for weeks, the engine barely hesitates. And suddenly it all makes sense: the preparations, the paperwork,
'til death do us part
. Carter wasn't planning for the end of the world.

He was planning for the end of
his
world.  

N
INETEEN

A light shines behind closed eyes, a brush of skin skimming my bare arm. The cold shiver is enough to penetrate sleep, and eyelids flutter open.

The glow of the television fills the room, flickering with every change of scene—from light to dark and back again. I reach for the lamp, turn it on, and wrestle myself upright. The pressure behind my eyes builds, head throbbing. I slide off the couch and move into the kitchen where I find a single bottle of Advil in an otherwise empty cabinet beside the refrigerator. I squeeze the sides of the lid to open it.  

The vision tumbles over me, crumbling reality as I brace myself against counter.

Darkness.

A single gunshot.

I jerk back, flinching, blinking rapidly. The container rolls on its side, pills scattered across the hardwood floor. I scoop them up, as many as I can grab in my fist at once, fingers refusing to cooperate, knees shaking and weak.  

"I know you're here," I say, standing to my full height, shoulders squaring.

Nothing.

But I know something is nearby. Someone is close—screwing with my head.

"I'm done! I'm finished with all of this, so you can show yourself or get out!"

Nothing.

It happens again the next night.

And the next.

He appears just after two in the morning. I'm awake—can't sleep. The lights are on. The television. I am standing in the kitchen making a peanut butter sandwich when he's right there. Almost standing on top of me.

"Holy shit!" I breathe, knife clattering to the counter, heart tripping over itself.

I back away, pressing myself into cabinets, cataloguing under
details
the brown robe. The salt and pepper hair. Wrinkles around the eyes. Lips seeping into a wicked smile.

"You're alone," I mumble, unsure if this is meant as a question or a statement, or if it even matters. Either way, the rest of the Council is missing. Unless they're here and I can't see them—unless they're hidden in shadows.

His eyes brush over me, appraising. "It's time."

I force a laugh, feigning contempt, pretending I do not fear him—what he represents. "Time for what?" I ask, returning to my sandwich, peeling the knife from the counter. But the peanut butter won't spread. My hands—they refuse to stop trembling.

"The Council requests your assistance. There is someone who needs to be eliminated."

My jaw tightens. "Who?"

He produces an envelope.

"You're kidding," I mutter.

"You are familiar with The Cypress hotel," he continues. "I believe you were there recently."

"I went with Carter," I confirm.

His gaze sears mine, expression unreadable. "Carter. Yes. We are deeply sorry for your loss. These last few weeks must have been . . .
difficult
for you."

It's then that I wonder what this man is keeping from me. What he knows about Carter. About us. About the accident. I wonder if I even
want
to know.

I swallow hard, tearing my eyes from him, forcing my fingers to take the envelope.

"You will find the address and directions inside, and an invitation to an event. You are to check into the hotel. You are to attend this event. You are to tell no one why you are there. You are to find the man whose name is carried within that envelope, and you are to dispose of him."

"What did he do?" I ask, hesitating.

"That is none of your concern."

"If I'm killing a guy, then yes, I'd like to know why I'm doing it."

"You're doing it for Seth. Correct?"

My heart slows, weighing the cost of the task stretched before me, the reward for accomplishing it. "I mean . . . he deserves to die, right?"

An artful smile hitches his lips. "Of course."

"What is he? A Guardian? A demon? A regular . . . person?"

"That is for you to determine."

"So, that's it? I take this . . .
whatever
. . . out for you," I say, waving the envelope, "and Seth is mine?"

"That is correct."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"You have no choice but to take us at our word," he says.

"You lied to me before," I remind him.

His eyes harden, previous traces of benevolence slipping away, disappearing from them. "If there is any hope of Seth being restored to his former place, you will accomplish this," he says, voice threatening.

"And how, exactly, do you
expect
me to accomplish this?"

"You are a beautiful, intelligent young woman, Genesis. I am confident you will think of something. Please know, however, that you are bound to secrecy. You will tell no one of this meeting, and, should you fail, you will speak nothing of this assignment or of the Council, because we
will
deny you." Another long, lingering smile. "But then, should you fail, we've nothing to fear."

An icy chill travels the length of my spine.

"Godspeed, Ms. Green."

T
WENTY

Knowing sleep will never come, I pack. I rip tags off pristine, monogrammed luggage and fill it with everything I might need in the coming days. Forty-fives between the folds of sweaters. Knives between the black bolero and shimmery gold dress. Boxes of ammunition between a tube of mascara and eyeliner. My flat iron.

As I force belongings into the largest suitcase, I step away from Genesis the Avenger, shedding the moniker like an ill-fitting skin, transforming to Genesis the Assassin. Because that's what I am. I kill for killing's sake. And I think that my life was a whole lot simpler when all I had to worry about was Viola. There was black and there was white and
she
deserved to die. No other punishment would have sufficed, would have held her—not after what she did to me. To Seth. My friends. She is everything I trained for. And now I wonder if there was no alternative—if this was the only way out from the very beginning, that, no matter what happened, I was destined to find this path.

I'm in the SUV by three in the morning. The streets are deserted. The night clear. Cold. Moonlight pours from the sky, brightening the landscape.

A police officer stops me on my way out of town. I pass him my license through a cracked window. It has my new name. The new address. The new me. He doesn't even ask where I'm going, just hands it back and waves me through, then returns to his make-shift office, the warmth of a space heater and mug of coffee.  

And here I am again, travelling this well-worn road. Escaping under cover of night.

The sun is rising as I reach
Gaineston
, the world brightening from black to shades of blue, skyline looming in the distance. I punch the hotel address into the GPS, and find the building easily. My legs ache with fatigue as I roll my suitcase across the parking lot, pavement grinding beneath the wheels.

Inside, the hotel is everything I remember. The sounds, the smells, the colors. I pass the restaurant to my right, cross the lobby, head to the front desk. "The Cypress," in brushed nickel, graces a stone water feature behind the manager, who seems awfully stiff in that navy blazer.

"I need a room," I tell her.

Her fingers hover above the keyboard, poised. "Do you have a reservation?"

Would the Council secure a reservation for me?

"I don't know. You can check."

"Your name?"

"It would be under Fleming. Genesis Fleming. Or maybe Genesis Green? I'm not sure."

She strikes a few keys, examines the screen, frowning. "I'm sorry. I don't see anything."

"It's fine. I need a room either way."

"Check-in isn't until noon."

"What?"

"I can assign you a room," she explains. "But check-in isn't until noon."

I
heave
a weary sigh. "Look, I just drove like, three hours to get here. I'm tired. Is there any way you can let me check in now? I'll pay extra. Whatever."

"I'm sorry. Hotel policy."

"I don't get it. Is there a shortage of rooms or something?" I ask, temper swelling, body overheating from lack of rest.

A smile. It's the best she can offer.

I study her for a moment. Her too-tight ponytail and tacky yellow scarf. The pin on her lapel congratulating her for five years of service. "What am I supposed to do until lunch time?"

"The restaurant is open. You're welcome to wait. Otherwise, I'm sure there are other hotels in the area willing to accommodate you."