Revelation (21 page)

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

I struggle to regain composure. "Fine. Much better, actually," I assure him.

"Before another thing is said, please know that I apologize for last evening. It was never my intention to upset you."

I force a smile. "You've more than made up for it. The room is beautiful." I slide into the booth, distancing myself. "And the flowers. Thank you."

He sits down across from me. "I'm pleased you like them. After the ass I made of myself, I feared I'd never find my way back to your good graces."

"Trust me, I'm not worth losing sleep over," I confess, reaching for the menu.

"I'm inclined to disagree. I lost plenty of sleep over you last night."

"Why?"

He laughs, fidgeting with his glass of Scotch. "I haven't quite figured that out myself."

An embarrassed heat creeps from my neck and into my cheeks. I scan the menu, fully absorbed, even as the words blur incomprehensively. 

"You're different," he finally says, breaking the silence. My eyes lift, meeting his. "There's something about you."

"I'll bet you say that to all the women you wine and dine and invite to masquerade balls."

He sits taller, straightening. "On the contrary, I haven't spent so much quality time with a woman in ages. You can see I'm out of practice."

"That's funny. Because your assistant was kind enough to remind me that I'm not the first girl to wake up in a strange penthouse with breakfast on the table."

He laughs, caught in his own lie. "I did say
quality
time." A weighty pause lingers between us. His eyes remain downcast, fingers creasing the edges of the cloth napkin at his place setting. "You're not like them. I found myself sorry I had to work this morning," he admits, forehead crinkling as he frowns.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," I reply, closing the menu, tossing it aside.

"You needn't say anything." He reaches for his glass. "You never mentioned your asthma," he continues, changing the subject.

"Yeah. It's kind of a new development. Not something I care to advertise."

"A new development?" he repeats. "How so?"

The waitress returns with a fresh drink for Luke, ready to take our order.

The moment we're alone again: "I'm sorry," he continues. "I don't mean to pry. I'm just curious."

"There was an accident. Last winter. Carter was driving. There was something in the road. Carter swerved to miss it, then overcompensated. The SUV was totaled." A soft sigh, a quiet laugh. "I don't know how I walked away."

Lie.

My Guardian was there. He saved me.

"Anyway," I go on. "I hit my head and broke my wrist, and now, whenever I get anxious or stressed or push myself too far, it's like my lungs just . . . stop working. It's been a problem ever since."

His mouth sets with concern. "That must have been traumatic for you."

"For the sake of being honest, I don't think I'm supposed to be sitting here."

The words release the silent suspicion buried inside, like my subconscious, still trying to piece together the events of the last year—trying to make sense of them.

The way the SUV rolled. Seth.

I was supposed to die in that accident.

"Believe me, if your time was up you wouldn't be sitting here," Luke says, matter of fact. "That means you've something left to do."

The weight of the gun presses against my leg, a token of my mission. "You believe in a divine purpose, then?"

"Absolutely."

There's irony here, somewhere.

"Well, if there's anything I've learned in the last year, it's that I'm not in control."

"That's a fairly cynical attitude for someone your age."

"Because you're so much older and wiser than me?" I say, smile playing at my lips. "No. I'm not in control. I can feel it. There's Carter, obviously. But there are other things, too. The friends I've lost this year. And my mom is God knows where. Sometimes . . . sometimes it feels like I'm not even writing my own story."

"Of course you are."

Images of Stu and Viola and
Arsen
and Carter and Seth and demons and the Council churn in my head. The fires and the
drownings
and the accidents. And Lucien
Castellani
, whose death will stop it all. I stifle a laugh. "No, Luke, I don't think I am."

"Nevertheless, last night was. . . ." He trails off, exhaling a rueful sigh. "I can't imagine what it must feel like to not be able to breathe."

"I've never been able to breathe," I say. "Now it just affects me physically."

He reaches for his drink, eyes meeting mine, something like hurt reflecting in them. "I know exactly what you mean."

*          *          *

Luke and I ride the elevator to my floor, standing silent—separated—as it lifts.

"I'm heading to Europe in a few days, and I won't return to the States for several months." We pause outside my room. "I'd love to see you tomorrow."

And again I'm trapped inside those pleading eyes, bound by the change—the unease lacing his tone.

"Okay."

His shoulders relax, satisfied. "Until tomorrow, then."

He fingers the tendrils of hair at my ear, warmth radiating from his skin. Our eyes connect, and his head tips to mine, drawing closer.

He's going to kiss me.

I can't let him kiss me.

I ease away from him, distancing myself.

A quiet laugh. "I'm sorry. I'm too forward."

I slip the card into the lock and wait for the green light.

"I would be lying if I said I didn't
want
to kiss you," he says.

Go.

"Good night, Luke." I smile, turning the handle.

"Good night." But, just before it shuts: "Genesis, wait." He stops the door with his hand, forces it open.

"I want you to come with me. To Europe." 

"
What?
"

His eyes drift from mine, following the line of sunflowers extending from one end of the suite to the other. And, for a moment, he's
real
, expression betraying every thought—as stunned on the outside as I feel on the inside. He clears his throat, straightens his dinner jacket, composing himself. "I'd like you to accompany me to Europe. If your schedule will allow it."

"But . . . we barely know each other," I remind him.

"I know everything I need to know," he declares, color rising to his cheeks. "And perhaps I'm being presumptuous, but these last few days. . . ." He struggles to collect his thoughts. It's unnerving, so unlike him. "I've enjoyed every moment we've spent together. You've made this trip more than bearable for me. If I left without asking, I'd regret it forever. I don't think I could . . . I don't
want
to leave you behind."

"You're drunk. You're not serious."

A caustic laugh. "Why is it so difficult for you to believe me when I tell you you're different?" he asks. "This could be everything you've waited for. Everything you've dreamed. A new beginning. The entire world . . . yours," he finishes, voice lowering to a whisper.

His glassy green eyes seem guarded, edged with fatigue, anxious with the possibility of rejection.

And that's what gives me power.  

"Don't make a decision tonight," he insists before I have a chance to refuse. "I'm offering, though—asking you to join me—and I would love for you to say yes."

T
WENTY-SEVEN

I wait on the other side, back pressed against the door, counting seconds until I'm sure he's gone. I turn the doorknob quietly, carefully, peering down the hallway. It's empty. I ease the door shut behind me, move toward the elevator, shoving hands into the pockets of my winter coat.

I have to get out of here. I need to get away from this hotel.

A bell hop greets me as I step into the lobby.

"Good Evening, Mrs. Fleming. May I have someone bring your car around?"

"No, thank you. Just stepping out for some fresh air."

Patches of moonlight shine between clouds as I slip into night, heat from my breath shifting to smoke, heels clicking against sidewalk. Already my lungs burn with cold. I turn at the end of the block, heading into the shopping district. A few places are still open—coffee shops, bars, restaurants. The retail shops are closed, though, and the streets nearly empty.

Europe.

I never dreamed of Europe—never allowed these kinds of fantasies to gain traction, knowing they were like poison, both imprisoning and consuming. That they would leave me miserable and wanting everything I could never have. But now, it's here—the very real opportunity to visit a place that only existed in movies and magazines and fairytales. I can say yes. I can see those places. I can be that person I always wanted. Someone who
matters
.

It would give me more time. I can get to know him better, figure out what he's after. I'll know what drives him. He'll trust me.

A shuffling noise. I glance behind me. Two grown men shadow my footsteps, following.

I pick up my pace.  

It's nothing.

But my head never speaks louder than my gut and this doesn't stop my pulse from edging higher. I feel for my gun—stored safely in its holster. At the next street I take a swift right, hurrying, distancing myself further. When I check again they're still pursuing with steady purpose, an icy resolve. This is no mistake. No coincidence. I break into a run, slipping down an alley. Freezing water stings my legs and feet as I splash through puddles.  I turn again, just to check, and . . . nothing. I pause midway, hunched over, arms hugging my chest as I fight to catch my breath.

I don't feel fingers wrapping around my neck until it's too late. Before I can scream, run, reach for my gun, I'm trapped, shoved into a brick wall, the world dying behind stars.

Demons.

He squeezes harder, cutting off my air supply. "What do you want with Luke
Castellani
?" he demands to know. The other stands hidden in shadows.

My head throbs, pulsing with pain. I blink, struggling to focus. Steam pushes into the alley. The smell of fabric softener lingering in the air.

"Tell me!"

"N-nothing," I stammer.

"I don't believe you. What do you know about him?"

I try to swallow, but can't.