Revelation (18 page)

"What do you want, Viola? Why are you here?"

The door slams shut.

"There's a rumor that you were called on by the Council. That they're using you for something big. I need to know if 'something big' has anything to do with Lucien
Castellani
."

I toss my bag on the bed, kick off shoes, wondering where she heard this—who spread this "rumor," what it means for me.

"Of course it does. I see it in your face. What did the Council ask you to do?"

My jaw smarts from pressure.

"What did they promise in return?"

No one can know about Luke. The Council. I can't screw this up.

"Seth, right? She sinks onto the edge of my bed, as if we're old friends—blending into scenery like she belongs here. "Maybe it was my imagination, but you and Lucien seemed very cozy together."

I try to ignore the hairs pricking on my neck, refuse to meet her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're surprised? You did it to Carter.
Arsen
. To Seth. Even the Council. Face it, Genesis. You command people's attention. Everywhere you go, people look. They want to know what it is about you."

"I am nobody," I insist, stifling a laugh.

"A
nobody
couldn't capture the attention of a Guardian. An entire
force
of Guardians. A
nobody
couldn't have distracted
Arsen
the way you did. The way you're distracting Lucien
Castellani
right now. I don't work with
nobodies
."

The words fall between us, scattering, as if I am something special, someone worth knowing—worth
being
.   

"I could name a thousand people on this planet who'd love to see Lucien
Castellani
dead," she finally says, matter of fact. "I could name a thousand more in another world. Seven, in particular."

My heart stops beating, lungs frozen so that I can only stand there, silent, praying I don't give anything else away.

"How long did they give you?"

Nothing.

"You really aren't going to talk to me are you?"

"You can't blame me for not believing a word you say."

"Touché." She stands, paces slowly across the room, moving toward the window. "So . . . let's play a game. Because that's what this is, right? A game?" She pulls back the curtain, gazes on a midnight street. "Let's say you're working for the Council. They've promised you Seth. They still have to go through me, right?"

I eye her warily, washed in shadows of doubt, caution.

"So, let's say we make it eight. Eight people who want to see Lucien
Castellani
suffer. You succeed, the Council comes for Seth, I hand him over without a fight."

Viola wants Luke dead, too.

The realization settles over me, troubling.

"Jesus. What does everyone have against this guy?"

"The details aren't necessary."

"They
are
. I
need
details. I need to know
who
or
what
he is," I explain. "If he's human, no problem. If he's . . . if he's something else there's more to it. I have to figure out what drives him. I need to know. . . . " I swallow hard. "Where to aim."

The curtain falls back into place as she steps away from the window. I've given her exactly what she wanted, confirmed her every suspicion. I can only pray this pays off. "That's easy. He's driven by his hatred of this world and the people in it."

"I spent the last two nights with him," I remind her. "It doesn't look like he's driven by malice to me."

She shrugs. "Think what you want. It's your funeral."

I force my eyes not to roll. "Come on, Viola. You're more hateful and vindictive than he is, and
you're
not even driven by malice."

Viola wiped away a blow to her throat with a flick of the hand. The other demons fell with barely a fight. Nothing about Luke screams malicious.

"He is without a soul. He is depraved."

"This sounds like a personal vendetta. Why are you dragging me into it?"

"Because you're the only one who can do it. Because you have what it takes. And you will succeed, because I have something you want."

"Are you telling me Luke
Castellani
is a demon?"

A menacing smile. "Lucien
Castellani
is the worst of the worst." 

T
WENTY-FOUR

"Mrs. Fleming?"

A fist pounds against the door, jarring me from sleep.

I sit upright, a mix of fear and adrenaline jolting my body. The room is dark, but a sliver of light seeps beneath the curtain. The numbers on the alarm clock serve as a startling revelation: morning is over.

"Mrs. Fleming? I have a delivery!"

A delivery. Someone from the hotel?

"Just a minute!" I grab my gun from beneath the pillow—just in case—and cram it into the pocket of the white bathrobe hanging in the closet. I throw it over my pajamas and tie it at the waist. "Coming!" I unlock the deadbolt and open the door to the hallway.

"A package for you," the hotel staffer says.

"Couldn't you have left it?"

"I apologize, Mrs. Fleming, but I was given specific instructions." He hands me the box. It's gift-wrapped.
Professionally
gift-wrapped. Tied with a purple satin bow. The card reads "Genesis" in brilliant, bold calligraphy.

"Thanks."

My body relaxes when the door is shut again. Locked.

The gift remains unopened on the dresser while I pull back the curtains. The midday sun brightens the room, reflecting off windows of nearby high-rises. I blink a few times, waiting for my eyes to adjust, then tear open the card.

Enjoyed our evening together. Would love for you to accompany me to tonight's Friends of the Hospital Charity Masquerade Ball. Though candidates will be in attendance, they will not be allowed the microphone.

The Crystal Ballroom

Eight o'clock

Luke.

I slide the wrapping off the package. Nestled inside tissue paper is a beautiful mask. It glitters, flickering shades of purple, light bouncing from every angle. A gathering of large, black plumes spread skyward, silvery ribbons curling along the cheek. I brush my fingers across it, holding a breath.

He's going to make this incredibly easy for me.

I can almost hear Carter and Seth, begging me not to do this.

It's too dangerous.

It's not worth it.

I force the voices out of my head. Wherever they are, they can't help me now.

*          *          *

Luke expected me to say yes. My name is on the guest list when I arrive.

I sweep into the ballroom, bustle shadowing me, trailing the floor. The dress is black, dark as night, with deep purple accents—a perfect complement to the mask. The front of the dress is short, a bubble skirt, and the corseted top cinches my waist, drawing it in. I needed something unique, something fashionable, something that would attract attention—Luke
Castellani's
attention, in particular. I gave the saleswoman my specifications, and, after investigating the new arrivals in the storeroom, she came through for me. It was a pricey success, but a success nonetheless.

I search the crowd for him. It's like something out of a dream. Billowing dresses. Outlandish masks. Everything—everyone—shines, sparkling beneath chandeliers.

A waiter approaches, balancing a tray of champagne glasses on his palm.

At first I refuse, but then. . . .

It's a charity event for God's sake. No one's carding tonight.

I need this.

I need it to help me think clearly. I need it to figure out Luke's motivation. To do what I have to do. And so I reach for one of the flutes, down its contents in a few, quick gulps, and return the empty glass to the tray.

The bubbles tickle my throat, my nose. I stifle a cough.

Must be an acquired taste.

A brush of skin traces the length of my arm, turning over the images of the tattoo, and a shivery tingle charges through my body.

"Ms. Fleming, you look stunning."

So does he. Black tuxedo. Pale green eyes glinting behind his mask. Dark hair and chiseled jaw line. He's tall, standing several inches above me, though I'm in heels. His fingers tighten around mine and my pulse quickens, breath hitching in my chest. It's the closest we've ever been—the longest we've ever touched.

I feel—

My head grows lighter. The room and everything in it seems to disappear.

He feels so strong. So
powerful
.

Champagne shouldn't work this fast.

"Is everything all right?" he asks.

A series of flutters ripple through my stomach. "Fine." I force a smile, and thank him for both the compliment and the invitation.

We move through the crowd together, and, for the first time, I witness Luke
Castellani
at work. He knows everyone, and everything about everyone. He never misses a name, falters an occupation. Doctors. Their wives. CEOs. Their escorts. He's a brilliant conversationalist. Everyone adores him. Admires him. Appreciates me with him.

He eventually pulls away, hand poised on the small of my back, guiding me along the perimeter of the room. "Money. Work. Money. It's as if they have nothing better to discuss," he says, an uncomfortable edge to his tone. "You must be bored to death."

"I don't mind."

He reaches for two wine glasses, passing one to me. I could use another.

"Well, I do. There will be no more talk of layoffs, mergers, or acquisitions. Tonight will be fun." He raises his glass to me. "To us."

I lift mine. "To having fun," I reply.

We drink, watching the assembly from a safe distance. The sounds of the ensemble—violins, cellos, double basses—drift happily between us. 

Talk to him
, the voice in my head demands
. If Viola was right—if he is a demon—then weapons are meaningless until you know what drives him. You have to know what he wants.

"Would you like to dance?" Luke asks, puncturing my thoughts, gesturing toward the floor.