Revelation (The Guardians, Book 3)

by Katie Klein

  "If I don't help the Council I'm passing up an opportunity to save Seth," I interrupt. "And I won't do that, Carter. I won't."

  THIRTEEN

  Thirty miles outside the tiny, seaside town I spy the first South Marshall sign. Cruise control is set, radio playing quietly in the background. Nothing like that last night, speeding down highway, watching the rearview mirror, desperate to get out. My body reacts to the words, longing more than ever before to be home, craving a taste of salty air.

  "Get ready," Carter warns as we cross the county line. I scour my wallet, removing my social security card and license, pausing to examine the girl in the photo. A girl who no longer exists. A girl who knew struggle and fighting, but never running and killing. The new license—new hair, new name, new address—hasn't arrived.

  Carter shifts in his seat, produces his wallet, and I locate his information just as we reach the barricades. He rolls the window halfway, pulling to a stop, and a brutal wind sweeps through the cab, a cruel reminder of the shift in seasons.

  "Good Afternoon," a soldier says. He carries our cards to a makeshift command center—tent and table and laptop—positioned at the edge of the road. I hug my elbows against the icy air, shivering with a chill, watching him work.

  "Relax." Carter reaches across the cab, brushes his thumb along my cheek. "Nothing is going to happen."

  "We don't know what they know," I remind him. "What if they're still looking for me?"

  His voice lowers. "I told you. There's nothing to connect you to that night. Too many other things are happening here. Even Mara said you were in the clear, and she knows more than either of us."

  But my fears are confirmed when the soldier returns. "You're fine, Mr. Fleming, but we'd like to know what business Ms. Green has in South Marshall."

  "I live here," I tell him.

  "We've been out of town for a couple of months," Carter explains. "We're moving into a new condo this afternoon."

  "The rule is only permanent residents of the town are allowed in and out. Your information checks out," he says to Carter. "But yours," he continues, leering at me, "is not a permanent address."

  The house. Mine and Mom's. It was a rental.

  "Look," Carter says, voice rising. "She has a permanent address, and it's with me. We got married a few weeks ago. Her information just hasn't been updated, yet."

  The soldier eyes me callously, still addressing Carter. "If she wants in, I need proof she's married to you, and that you maintain a residence here."

  Carter heaves a frustrated sigh, reaches for the door handle, asks if the soldier can step aside.

  I twist in my seat, rotating to watch him dig through boxes returning with us—scraps and remnants of whatever we collected while "disappeared." And, out of the rubble of our existence on the run, he removes a bulky white envelope. My lifeline. My ticket home.

  "Here. Our marriage certificate, bank account information, and the contract for our condo. If you have questions about any of this, call him." Carter produces a business card. "He'll confirm everything I've told you."

  The soldier examines the card, this new development. And for a moment it's like he's disappointed. Like he doesn't want to let me in. That he'd rather separate us at this barricade. Send me in the other direction—all I don't care whose home this is. Instead, he simply says: "Okay. Have a nice day."

  An exchange of thanks. The car door slams, Carter rolls the window back up.

  "That went well," I mutter. "I guess this makes me grateful we're married?"

  "Told you," he replies, shifting the car into gear, easing us through the roadblock, ignored by soldiers having labeled us no longer a threat.

  "There's no way you could have possibly known this would happen," I say.

  "Haven't you heard the saying 'expect the unexpected'?"

  "Yeah, but that makes no sense at all, because then the unexpected would be expected, which means 'unexpected' does not exist."

  "The point is you have to be ready for anything, Gee. Expect the worst, then hope for the best."

  I open my mouth to remind him things couldn't possibly get any worse, but I remember Viola hasn't come for me, I don't know what the Council wants, I don't know where Seth is or how to get him back. . . .

  While hiding, South Marshall edged my thoughts. When I wasn't training or thinking about Seth or worrying about Carter, I would slip to the beach in my head and find solace there. The South Marshall we've returned to is nothing like the one we left. I remember utopia. Soft sand and blue waves and colorful seaside homes. A kiss of sun stretched across cheeks. Warm breezes against my skin.

  This . . . this is a ghost town. Offices boarded shut, graffiti spray painted on sides of buildings. Signs stripped.

  We continue on, pausing for red lights at abandoned intersections. Even as I fight them, memories push their way to present: weaving in and out of traffic, begging Selena to stop—to believe me when I saw the accident happen. . . .

  An empty lot looms before me, parking spaces overgrown, sprouts of grass and weed driving through asphalt, reaching for sunlight. A pile of ash and soot remains, larger debris already hauled away, the plot waiting for a new gas station or bank or another place to purchase South Marshall key chains, glass feet filled with sand, and five dollar body boards.

  Stu.

  Other memories surface: heat burning my skin, smoke choking my lungs. And Seth. He's everywhere, filling the town. And the seed of hatred for Viola buries deeper, rooting, ready to explode.

  "You okay?" Carter asks.

  "Yeah." The word strangles my throat. I swallow hard, clearing it. "I just can't get over how dead this place is." Dead. As soon as the word passes my lips: regret. Selena. Stu. They're dead. The town—it's still here. I'm still here.

  Carter turns down a side street and onto Ocean Boulevard, driving parallel to the sea. "It's just because the season is over. Wait until spring. This place will be back in no time."

  We pass the site of the old Palms Hotel, once standing over ten stories high, now reduced to a charred nothing. Burnt to rubble.

  What if we don't make it to spring?

  We move through town, away from industrial districts and business districts and into the new resort quarter, which has somehow come through this tribulation unscathed. Buildings as pristine as the day they were built. No overgrown hedges. No abandoned cars. No bars or boards covering the windows—No Trespassing. "It's like they haven't been here," I say, thinking aloud.

  "They've been here," Carter says. "But it's the safest area. They have more security in this seven-block radius than the rest of South Marshall combined. Trust me, Gee, I wouldn't put you anywhere you wouldn't be safe." He steals a glance in my direction. "Well, safer. Considering," he adds, mumbling.

  He taps the turn signal and pulls onto a tree-lined drive. We stop at the gate, and a security guard steps out.

  "Are they going to let me in?" I ask.

  "You don't know what you'd do without me."

  He announces us, hands the guard our licenses. "Carter and Genesis Fleming. We're moving in."

  "Welcome to The Village at Bella Vista, Mr. Fleming," the guard replies, touching the brim of his hat, nodding toward me. "Mrs. Fleming."

  I force a smile. Jesus, Carter. I hope you know what you're doing.

  We're given instructions, parking permits, pointed to where our condo is located. The gate lifts and we cruise beneath it, winding down the driveway, gliding among trees reduced by salt spray.

  "I'll give you a tour later," Carter says, parking in our assigned space. "Show you the workout room. The clubhouse."

  "I'm not working out here," I tell him, gazing at glass doors and wrought-iron balconies. "But since we're back to civilization, we should probably find a shooting range. You know, just until we hear something."

  "Already on it, Gee."

  "I'll bet you are."

  We trek three flights of stairs. Ocean wind fills the breezeway, triggering goose bumps, breathing life
into my veins.

  "This is us."

  "It feels so . . . empty," I note, glancing around while he fidgets with the key.

  "A lot of the units are still unsold. Some are rentals. We got lucky."

  The door swings open, and, grinning arrogantly, Carter reaches his arms out to me. My eyebrow lifts, demanding explanation.

  "It's our first place. You aren't going to let me carry you across the threshold?" he asks.

  Carry me across the . . . ?

  I elbow past him, scowling. "No."

  "It has to be believable!" he calls after me. But I ignore this, already inside, stepping across hardwood floors, bypassing the kitchen.

  When they said "fully furnished," they weren't kidding. The living room boasts a gray couch. An easy chair. A rug. Throw pillows. Artwork on the walls.

  "It . . . matches."

  Carter laughs. "That's all you can say? It matches?"

  "I've never been inside a store with furniture this nice, Carter. We didn't even have a kitchen table. And remember the couch?"

  His eyes glimmer, filled with humor. "Oh, I remember the couch very well."

  "Don't go there," I warn, opening a door just off the living room—a storage closet.

  "Just out of curiosity," he begins after a few, quiet beats. "Do you regret . . . us?"

  I shut the door carefully, stealing a peek at him—his murky, troubled eyes—unable to keep his gaze. "No. Do you?"

  "No."

  The following door exposes a half bathroom. "I mean, everything happens for a reason, right?" I add.

  "You believe there's a plan in all of this?"

  "I hope so."

  I open door number three, suck in a breath. Everything is white. White pillows. White sheets. White featherbed and duvet. There's an ebony-colored dresser. Nightstand. Chest of drawers.

  The mountain house had nice décor. The Fleming's pool house was beautiful. But this. . . . This is. . . .

  "This is your room," Carter announces, moving around me.

  "I can't take this room," I insist. This is his condo. These are his things. This should be his room.

  "Sure you can." He pulls back vertical blinds on the far wall, revealing a sliding glass door and balcony. And in the distance. . . .

  The ocean. Waves crashing to shore. The sun burning off clouds, patches of water sparkling like diamonds.

  I stifle a happy laugh. "This is insane!"

  "Do you want to see something really insane?"

  We cross the parking lot together, following sidewalks until we reach the marina. The wooden planks feel sturdy beneath my feet as we walk over water. "This better not mean what I think it means," I mutter.

  "Slip eighty-six," he replies. "I bought it from a broker a few weeks ago."

  "You bought a boat?" I ask, disbelieving, arms crossing away the cold.

  "It was on sale," he promises.

  I nod as if this makes perfect sense. Of course it was on sale—not that I know the going rates for boats these days. Whatever the cost, it wasn't cheap—sale or no sale. "Do you even know how to drive a boat?"

  "I'm a fast learner." Carter rushes ahead, and, by the time I catch up, he's stepped off the pier and into a white speedboat—clean lines, thick navy stripe painting the side. He sits in the captain's chair behind the steering wheel. "Oh, man. I have always wanted my own boat." His boyish features light, and, even with darkened hair, I glimpse the Carter I used to know. The happy Carter. The "without a care in the world" Carter. I'm happy the boat makes him happy—that anything makes him happy.

  You could have this, Genesis. All of it. Seth's voice resonates in my head, clear, as if he's standing next to me, whispering the same, tired argument into my ear.

  I pull my sleeves tighter, push the words away.

  It's not enough.

  FOURTEEN

  My hand finds the magazine, feeling its weight in the darkness. Its shape. Ears registering its click into place.

  And then the knock.

  The persistent thudding.

  I rip the blindfold from my eyes, squint back brightness. A quick scan of the marina from the window reveals no immediate sign of Carter or the boat. I check the time on the microwave. He isn't due to return until dinner, and this visitor isn't going away.

  Another one-two-three knuckle against the door.

  I heave a sigh, lift the leg of my jeans, cram the gun into the holster at my ankle. My bare feet pad quietly across the living room floor. Through the peephole, I see a distorted man alone in the breezeway.

  You shouldn't open the door for strangers, the voice in my head chides.

  The things I'm most afraid of don't bother knocking, I remind it.

  I flip the deadbolt, turn the knob, jerk the door open.

  "Can I help you with something?" I ask, unwilling to mask the irritation in my tone. Because no one who knocks for ten straight minutes deserves an ounce of civility. My foot wedges the door—preventing it from opening further—fingers poised, ready to grab the forty-five in a second.

  "Is Carter Fleming available?" The man is older. Pencil-thin. Gray suit. Glasses. Precautions are unnecessary, I realize. I could probably take him down without the gun.

  "At the moment? No," I say. "Who, may I ask, is looking for him?"

  The man reaches inside his coat pocket, removes a business card. John W. Hardee, Attorney at Law. My spine stiffens. "What can I do for you?"

  "Are you Genesis?"

  "Depends on who's asking."

  He plucks the card from my fingers, hands it back to me.

  I scoff.

  What a prick.

  "Well, Mr. Hardee, Attorney at Law, it's nice to meet you. Any particular reason why you spent the last ten minutes beating down my door?"

  "I need to drop these off," he says, presenting a sizeable envelope. "Carter is expecting them, and I was told someone would be home."

  "So you're Carter's attorney," I confirm.

  "I'm the Fleming's attorney. Congratulations on the wedding," he continues. "I'm sorry we weren't afforded an invitation."

  "Thank you. And there were no invitations. Would've ruined the surprise."

  "Yes, Mr. Fleming—Carter's father, I mean—found it highly amusing."

  I detect something like sarcasm in his voice. "Then I guess it's a good thing he's not the Mr. Fleming I aim to please," I counter.

  A slow blush crawls up his neck, reaching his cheeks, eyes averting, adjusting his glasses. "I apologize. I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I only meant to bring Carter these papers. They're very important."

  He hands me the package. Bulky. Sealed. A large CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the front. I examine the address. "Gaineston? We're out of the way for you, aren't we?"

  "The Flemings are very important to us." He clears his throat, gathering whatever's left of his professionalism. "And, as the new Mrs. Fleming, please don't hesitate to call if there's anything we can do for you."

  My eyebrow lifts, skeptical. "How about I just make sure Carter gets this and we'll call it a day."

  I shut the door between us, locking it before Mr. Hardee can say anything else.

  When Carter returns from the marina, cheeks and nose pink with windburn, I point to the packet on the counter. He seems pleased to see it, but, despite the curiosity pinching my skin, I don't ask what's inside. I'm not a Fleming—not really—and their business isn't my business.

  I do, however, feel qualified to tell him his attorney is an ass.

  FIFTEEN

  I jerk awake, sitting upright, sweat beading off my forehead, rolling down my cheek. A shadowy figure hovers at the foot of my bed, and, as panic descends, I feel beneath my pillow, the cool of my sheets, searching for the gun. It's gone. As eyes adjust to darkness, I can distinguish the robe. Short, silvery hair.

  The Council.

  "What do you want?" My voice catches, squeaking the demand.

  He doesn't speak, doesn't utter a sound, his arm only rises. Slowly. Unt
il I'm staring straight into the barrel of a gun. And then, as if to answer, his finger tightens against the trigger, squeezing. I flinch, recoiling, but before I can open my mouth to scream. . . .

  I jerk awake, sitting upright, sweat beading off my forehead, rolling down my cheek. The moon-brightened bedroom is empty.

  I push aside the comforter, feel for the gun. It's still there, tucked beneath the pillow, exactly where I left it. I breathe relief. I'm alone. I'm alive. They haven't come to kill me. Yet.

  Time passes disjointedly, both leaping and creeping as I lie still, finger on the trigger, staring at a ceiling unable to sleep. And when the first sign of morning trickles through cracks in the blinds—a soft, indigo light—I crawl out of bed and slide jeans over my hips, slip the gun into the waistband, grab keys and Carter's jacket on my way to the door, careful not to wake him.

  The frigid morning air bites my cheeks and ears and nose. The sun has yet to rise. The world so blue and quiet I hear the lull of ocean waves before I reach the marina, water ebbing and flowing, kissing the sand. Wispy clouds ring the horizon. Sea grass blows in the wind. I breathe salty air, hoping it will somehow fill me. Fix me. Make me whole again. But no matter how hard I try I still feel that hollow emptiness inside. That missing piece.

  I don't know how much time has passed or how far I've gone, but I turn around just as sun lightens the sky. There are others now. Older couples walking the beach. A few brave souls searching for shells. It's still early, early and freezing, town half-deserted, but they're here, lured by the ocean. Bewitched. Unable to walk away, even if they wanted to.

  A guy—younger than me, fourteen or fifteen, maybe?—stands at the water's edge, gazing across the horizon and into nothing. He doesn't move as I approach, doesn't turn to face me, makes no effort to speak. He only stands there, watching the ocean as I pass. He's thin. All limbs—like a baby deer.

  All limbs.

  The sun spills through cracks in the clouds, casting orange and pink and lilac reflections across sand and water.