Revelation (31 page)

"It was the least he could do. You could've easily turned that gun on him."

We fall into thick silence, focused, radio muted, nothing except the drone of engine, tires spinning over asphalt.

"So how did you figure it out?" he finally asks. "His center, I mean—what drove him."

"I had it wrong, at first. I thought it was lust because of his relationships, his interest in me. But then—after the mark, when he was talking to the Council—I realized: he has nothing. No one. If Mara is right, and the curse is true, then everything he's made the mistake of loving has been taken from him. And you saw what happened to the human Guardians. You can't force people not to fall in love."

Fate, free will, whatever you want to call it, it's not something that can be crammed into a tiny box. It's not a single idea or one feeling. And it can't be controlled. Luke
Castellani
has a past. It's all there, written in his eyes. I can't be the first he's marked—just the first that got away.  

"I don't know," I go on. "I think he's making the best of what was an epic mistake. I would be disappointed, too."

"And the Council? How did you know they had centers?"

"I didn't. Not for sure. Mara even told me once that Guardians can't be created or destroyed. But, thanks to you, I knew the Council
was
creating them, so why
couldn't
they be destroyed, too? As far as the centers . . . the
Diabols
are fallen angels, right? I mean, I know it's more complicated, but if you can eliminate evil through a single center, why wouldn't it work in reverse? Why couldn't you take out
good
—and I use that term loosely—the exact same way? It was actually a lucky guess. The truth is I would've kept shooting until they died, or until the bullets ran out, or until they stopped me—whichever came first. At that point I had nothing to lose."

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," he says, frowning.

I stifle an angry laugh. "Why? I'm still here. I
won
, remember?"

We travel that lonely highway, that long expanse of road leading to the coast.

"I don't know why I'm going back," I mutter as the first South Marshall sign comes into view.

"Where else would you go? You belong here, Gee. Don't deny it."

"Yeah, but. . . . What am I
gonna
do
here?" I ask.

"Live."

"That's so easy for you to say. You have Mara. Other Guardians. You have something waiting for you. I've got nothing, Carter.
Nothing.
" I swallow hard, forcing back unexpected tears pricking my eyes.

"You have
me
," he reminds me. "I won't leave you. I'll stay with you—for as long as you need."

"Thank you," I say, stealing a glance at him. "For everything."

He reaches across the cab, hand resting on my shoulder, thumb stroking my neck, touching my skin. "Thank
you
," he replies. "For everything else."

T
HIRTY-FIVE

When the someone you love most dies, it's like the entire world explodes. Shattering. And all that's left is you, alone, picking up piece after piece, tucking them in your arms, the millions of splintered fragments scattered from one oblivion to the other. But anyone who's tried to paste together a broken heart understands the enormity of this task. The physical impossibility. Because try as you may, there are shards that will never be found, slivers that will never fit, pieces stolen long before they ever vanished.

T
HIRTY-SIX

I tighten the scarf around my neck, but it does little to deflect the cold, the frigid air rolling off the ocean. My boots sink in sand with every step, breath turns to smoke, vanishing. Clouds hang low in the sky, full and gray, ready to burst at any moment. Briny water tumbles over itself, choppy waves collapsing to shore. And I wonder how the world can be so loud yet so incredibly silent—how it's possible for life to sprint on while time stands still.

A sandpiper skitters past. It's only the two of us on this stretch of beach—only a few of us left. But they'll be back. The gray-blue water, warm breeze, the spring sun will eventually call them home. Until then, the universe is frozen. Waiting.

Because this—this is the hardest part of winter. And I think, if I can just get through this day, I'll be all right. And I think the same thing the day after. And the day after that—until a week has passed and I'm still okay. I can still breathe. Even if it hurts. . . . I'll make it.

I feel something behind me. A presence. I close my eyes, inhale, icy air chilling my lungs.

Carter?

Seth?

But when I turn, I'm alone.

Not entirely alone, though.
Someone
is in the shadows. Someone watches over me. I don't know who. The truth is I'll probably never know. I don't even think I
want
to know.

In the end, I got exactly what I asked for—I made a difference. But it doesn't feel that way. It doesn't feel that way because it isn't tangible. The difference isn't something that can be felt or touched or even seen.

An entire regime was overthrown. I overthrew them. And yet, when people put their heads on their pillows at night, they are none the wiser. No one will ever know the role I played. Stu, Selena, that little boy whose face I still see when I close my eyes, Seth—all pawns in the game of Higher Purpose. Casualties.

And no one will ever know.

I will never know why the Council picked me. I will never know if I was supposed to die in that accident, on that dark highway, on that dark night. I will never know the rest of Viola's story. I will never know how Seth managed to find his way back to me, over and over again. I'll probably never know where my mom—my erratic mother who was never quite a mother to me—went. I'll never understand why. I'll never fully know who was responsible for what—Viola, the Council. I'll never know what Luke saw in me—what made me worth saving. I will never fully grasp the ripple effect, the impact made in that invisible world.  

And I marvel at how our paths interconnect, how we are intricately woven into a tangled existence. Because without one, there is no other. Without the Council, no Seth. Without Carter—the accident—no reason for Seth to appear. Without the visions, no Viola. Without Mara, I could have never defeated them all. We are all linked—our legend, One. 

And now Life. Living. The greatest, final battle I will ever fight.

Another arctic draft blows through. I adjust my scarf, shove fists deeper into my coat pockets, avoiding the occasional tide pool, studying houses boarded for winter, empty hotel parking lots, the smooth, virgin sand as I follow shoreline.

And, as I make the solitary tracks on the beach this afternoon, I picture Seth, imagine what he would say if he were here. I listen for his voice—the music that scores my dreams, clear as the nights are cold and endless. Some days he's right beside me, whispering into my ear. Some days he's nowhere at all.

A tiny snowflake drifts past. I watch it flicker to sand, landing at my feet. Another falls. And another. And another. And I hold out my gloved palm to catch them. They fall harder, faster, and I laugh. I laugh and stretch my arms and tip my face toward heaven, and I spin around and around and around.

Because I feel him, and I know he's here.

*          *          *

I walk the distance back to the condo surrounded by snow—huge, wet flakes clouding the sky, rendering it impossible to see. They melt against my cheeks and nose, cling to eyelashes and hair, and, by the time I reach the stairs, I'm feeling my way through a watery, tear-stained world.

It's the someone waiting just outside my door that rouses me, drags me back to surface.  

"You again," I mutter, swiping my runny nose across a leather glove, voice wavering and unsteady.

"It's always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Fleming."

I feel inside my pocket, searching for keys. "How long did you spend knocking this time?" I ask. "Because no one is inside."

"A few minutes," Mr. Hardee, Attorney at Law, confesses. "I know your threshold caps at fifteen. I felt I should take my chances."

A smile pulls at my lips. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"First, I'd like to say that we're all deeply sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," I reply. "Me too."

"I also wanted to drop this by," he says, handing me a white envelope. It's thick. Heavy. "Should you have any questions. . . ." He removes a business card from his coat pocket.

"Thank you."

I toss the envelope to the kitchen island on my way to the living room, turn on the fireplace, grasp the tips of leather gloves between teeth, pulling, removing them finger by finger. The package remains untouched as I blow into my hands, warming them, wipe away the last of the tears, prepare a cup of coffee. But finally, when I can't ignore it another second. . . .

It's addressed to me.

Confidential.

I rip open the flap, fingers moving clumsily, gripping the stack of papers.

I flip the cover page.

Carter Nicholas Harrison Fleming.

A smile. Two middle names—destined for something amazing, even from birth.

If the Flemings only knew.

I continue scanning.

His
birthdate
.

Genesis Fleming.

The date we were married.

Holy Shit.

The papers tremble in my hand, knees shaky, unstable, head a swirling fog.

I flip to the next page.

"No," I mutter, anger coursing through my veins. "No. No. No! No! Carter Fleming!" I yell. "I swear to Jesus you'd better show your face!"

I flip to another page. And another. And another. Deeds. Titles. Statements.

"Carter!"

But he doesn't appear. He's gone. He's with Mara, taking his rightful place in an unseen world.

I cram the papers back into the envelope, turn off the fireplace, grab my gloves and keys. The SUV is barely in park before I'm jumping out, mounting frozen front steps, snowflakes tumbling around me.

"Mrs. Fleming!" I call, pounding on the door. "Mrs. Fleming, it's Genesis. Please!"

The housekeeper answers, but Kitty Fleming isn't far behind. I squeeze my way inside, lungs burning.

"One of your attorneys just came by," I explain, breathless. "He brought this."

"Okay," she says, not understanding.

"It's Carter's
will
."

She takes the envelope, motions for me to follow. I sit across from her at the breakfast table, the room overlooking the backyard pool—covered for winter, covered in snow. She skims pages, reviewing them.