Revelation (19 page)

I open my mouth to refuse, an "I'm sorry, but I don't dance," poised on my lips, but we're interrupted.   

"Good Evening, Lucien."

My spine stiffens at the sight of the approaching couple, and I have to force myself not to shrink away. The man. The mask. It's revolting. A pale, ghastly white, with beady eye holes and a long, beak-like nose.

I know it. It's familiar to me, like I've seen it somewhere before.

Those eyes.
That nose.

I try not to stare—to focus on the conversation—but my mind wanders, struggling to connect it to a memory. And suddenly:

Doctor's mask.

It's a replica of an old doctor's mask. During the Middle Ages—The Plague—no one knew what caused the sickness, or how to prevent it. Doctors wore these masks for protection. There was a drawing of one in my World History book.

The eyes behind it roam, gaze lingering appreciatively. "She's lovely,
Castellani
," he says. "They're making them younger and younger these days, aren't they?"

The woman glares at me with dagger eyes.

I finger my necklace, stealing a glance at Luke. His face seems to harden, darkening. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

The man tips his head, cackling.

Luke stands taller, tensing beside me. "If you'll excuse us," he says, nodding toward the woman, "I promised my date a dance."

He removes the half-empty glass from my hand and deposits it on a nearby table.

"No, it's okay. I don't. . . ."

But he's already steering me through the crowd. He wraps his arm around my waist, drawing me closer, bodies almost touching, and, in a moment, we're dancing.

"I apologize," he says, eyes searching mine. "I should never underestimate man's inability to mature, no matter how old he grows."

"It's fine. He was drunk."

"Where I'm from we're taught to treat women with respect, whether we're intoxicated or not. No one should make you feel uncomfortable for who you are." 

"I'm not easily offended," I assure him. His features soften at this, relaxing.

It's time.

"I didn't realize your name was Lucien," I go on, changing the subject.

A slow smile creeps across his face. "No one has called me that in quite some time."

"Your name—
Castellani
—it sounds Italian. But your accent. . . ." I trail off.

He laughs. "I picked it up from time spent in Scotland, and I've yet to shake it."

"But you're Italian?"

"I'm a resident of the world, Genesis. No true home. Just houses in many corners."

"What about your family? Where are they from?" I press.

"I have no family of which to speak."

"You must have family
somewhere.
A wife? Children?" I tease, flirting with him.

His eyes narrow behind the mask, accusing. "Are you
trying
to become The Other Woman?"

"No," I reply, countering his steely gaze. "Because that
would
offend me."

His fingers loosen, twirling me beneath his arm. He brings my hand to his lips, kissing it softly as I turn back to him, and a flood of warmth engulfs my body. The room is fiery and alive.

"You and I are very much the same," he admits. "We come from nowhere and have nothing. But then, we don't seem to need very much, either."

My head shakes, disagreeing. "I've watched you. You have everything."

"I think we would both agree that worldly possessions are worthless—that they ultimately leave us unsatisfied, wanting more."

"I've spent my entire life wanting. Not
wanting
, necessarily, but
needing
. I will never go through that again."

"Hence, your decision to marry the young Mr. Fleming."

My face heats, flushed with shame, embarrassment. "No. It was never about that."

"And now that you have all you need, how do you feel?" His eyes fix on mine, reeling them in.

How do I feel knowing I have a place to call home? A new car to drive? Money for food and hotels and dresses for masquerades?

"Empty," I confess, voice barely audible. "I feel empty."

His gaze breaks mine, eyebrows knitting, perplexed, as he stares at my lips. My spine tingles in anticipation, the moment frozen as I wait.

"See?
Exactly
the same," he finally says.

We're moving again, dancing, twirling in this ocean of extravagance—of gluttony—as if nothing happened between us. And I'm left speechless, wondering if it was my imagination, or if he felt it, too.

Was he actually going to
kiss
me?

Was I going to let him?

I force the thought away.

It doesn't matter.
He needs to keep talking.

"You must've had many disappointments if you feel as empty as I do."

"More than anyone in this room," he admits.

"What disappoints you most?"

He considers this before answering: "People."

"What about them?" I pry.

"Everything. We are the simplest, most predictable beings on the planet. The lowest common denominator. We squander our existence in gainful pursuits. We have an unlimited supply of potential which largely goes wasted. Take you, for example. Here you are, hiding out in the most beautiful hotel in the city after the unnatural death of your young husband, when there is an entire world at your disposal. Endless possibilities."

I gnaw on my cheek, emotions tangled, until I taste the metal bite of blood. "I'm not hiding out. I'm . . . sad," I confess. "I—I'm confused. I didn't—I don't really know what to do."

"So you ran away."

"I don't run from anything," I say, defending myself, ignoring the wave of guilt threatening to drag me under.

"Everyone is running from something."

My eyes close instinctively. I can't handle this right now. I can't think about Carter. The past. Scrounging for change to buy ramen noodles. Those crappy apartments. Nights spent without power. Packing my things. Leaving. Losing friends. Losing . . .
Everything
. The muscles in my stomach tighten, and I swallow back the tears threatening to surface.

Luke drifts closer, leaning in, chin resting against my temple. "I never would have left you," he whispers.

My eyes fly open, narrowing, the disguised accusation in his words cutting deep into my skin. What? How
dare
he? Is he assuming that. . . . Carter would
never
. . . . "He didn't
leave
me. It was an
accident
."

"These
accidents
, Genesis, sometimes they're not . . ."

"What are you saying?" I interrupt. "You think Carter—on
purpose
?"

"I'm saying I know what it's like to . . ."

My throat swells and eyes fill. "You don't know
anything
about him. He
never
would have left me if he had a choice.
Ever
." I struggle to keep my voice level, holding back tears.

A sheen of sweat beads along my hairline.

Why is he doing this?

Why is he making me feel this way?

Making me doubt myself.

Making me doubt Carter.

"I'm sorry," Luke says. "It was presumptuous of me . . ."

It's too hot
.

I shouldn't be here.

I can't do this. 

I wrench my arm from him, mind swirling, and move into the crowd, disappearing, swallowed by the sea of costumes and jewels and masks. Every pair of eyes, every gaze, seems to follow. My heart punches my ribs, dress strangling my waist. It's too tight. The room is too warm, on fire. It's too much.

Something to drink.

I push my way to the bar, breaths growing shorter.

She's here. I see her. That God-forsaken tattoo. Intense, scarlet hair. She watches as I pass, black velvet dress hugging every curve of her body. I feel the frown beneath the mask, her fierce eyes calculating my every move.

And, at that moment, I've never despised anyone more.

I hate her.

I hate the Council.

I hate Carter for leaving me.

I hate myself for letting it happen.

A rolling wave of nausea collides with my body as I reach the edge of the crowd. The world around me sparkles, shimmering as the room and revelers in it begin to vanish, one by one.

I stumble, grasping a chair for support. 

It's happening.
She's doing it again.

Someone calls my name. The voice is faraway, distant.

My body grows rigid. I command my legs to keep moving. By the time I reach the door, I'm running, breaths like knives stabbing my chest.

My inhaler. I need—

"Genesis, wait!"

I scurry down the hallway, balancing precariously on high heels, footsteps pounding behind me.

"Wait!" Luke grabs my arm, fingers digging into my skin. He whirls me around to face him and I'm backed into a wall, body pressing against it.

I can't breathe.

"Genesis, listen to me," he says, eyes haunted, filled with remorse. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean. . . ."

My knees weaken, hands refuse to stop trembling. "I can't. . . ." I gasp, desperate for fresh air, each breath weaker than the last.

Time stops as Luke sweeps me into his arms, satin skirt rustling, lifting me off the ground, heart pounding as I wrap my arms around his neck. He moves into the nearest room—an empty, darkened meeting room—and lowers me onto a chair.

"A glass of water, please!" he demands to someone hovering in the background.

I rip the mask off my face, sinking lower, fighting darkness.

And then: a new voice,
familiar
, though I can't quite place it. "Here! Her inhaler!"

My eyelids are weighted, too heavy to open. His hand grasps my cheek, holding my head upright as I slip further under.

His voice beckons, out of reach. "Genesis?"

Nothing.