Revelation (The Guardians, Book 3)

by Katie Klein

  His green eyes sparkle, lighting with amusement. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Genesis. Luke." He reaches across the table, and I take his hand in mine, studying him carefully—his eyebrows, dark features, the five-o'clock shadow. . . .

  "Luke," I repeat, feeling his name on my lips. "Well, don't worry. I only drink decaf after nine."

  "Quite the rebel," he teases.

  When the waitress returns, Luke asks for a Scotch and orders my coffee. He insists I try the cheesecake, and adds two slices of that, as well.

  As soon as we're alone, he nods toward my arm. "May I?"

  I glance to where he's staring and realize my sleeve has shifted, exposing the tattoo. My pulse ratchets higher as I gaze at it, wary. "Um, sure." I hesitate, but extend my arm across the table. He takes my hand in his. It's cooler than mine.

  "This is beautiful," he says, running his fingers across my skin.

  "Thank you."

  "Very intricate. It must have taken a while to complete."

  I shrug, indifferent, pulling my arm away, not comfortable until it's hidden—just as it should be. "Not really."

  Not at all. It was over before I could blink.

  He tugs at the top buttons of his shirt, pulls the collar aside, revealing the tip of a tattoo on his chest. It's not colorful, like mine. It's dark. Black ink.

  "What is it?"

  "A dragon. It took four sittings to complete. My first and only. It seems I'm something of a coward when it comes to self-inflicted pain."

  I reach for my glass of water. "So . . . what, exactly, do you do, Luke?" I ask.

  "I'm an investor," he answers. "I invest in companies—in people, really—turn them around, then reap the rewards."

  "Since you're staying in the penthouse, I'm guessing you're pretty good at it."

  "The best." He lifts his glass to me, drinks. "Now it's my turn," he announces. "What do you do, Genesis?"

  "That's classified, remember?"

  An easy laugh. "I was hoping your invitation meant we could move past vague formalities."

  I hesitate, knowing I have to throw something at him eventually or he'll never be satisfied. "I'm . . . in transition. Waiting for the next great opportunity."

  Lie.

  I'm trapped in a battle between good and evil, and the only way I can get back the Guardian I love is if I kill you. Another sip of water, ice jingling against glass.

  "All right. I'll accept that. Where are you from?"

  The waitress returns with our drinks and cheesecake.

  "Everywhere and nowhere," I reply. "I mean, my mom moved us around a lot," I explain, slicing my fork into the dessert, spearing a bite. "We were never in any one place long enough to get comfortable, you know? Until last year. We moved to a little town on the coast. She's gone—I mean, she left—but it's home to me now."

  "South Marshall?" he asks.

  I glance at him, surprised. "Yeah. You know it?"

  "I know that's where Jack lives. I'm assuming you married his son?"

  "You assume correct."

  "May I also assume it didn't work out?"

  A careless shrug. "That depends on your definition of 'not working out.'"

  "You're separated, then?"

  "No," I answer, cheeks burning. "Carter went missing. Several weeks ago. A boating accident."

  Luke's spine seems to stiffen. He sits straighter, taller. Eyes narrowing, disturbed. "I'm so sorry," he says. "I didn't realize. . . ."

  "I know."

  "I noticed you were still wearing your ring, but I try not to speculate."

  "They haven't found him," I say. "They found the boat. But not the . . ." It physically hurts to think the words. "Not Carter."

  "You're holding out hope, then?"

  I study the ring, my blue diamond, spinning it around my finger. "I'm a realist," I say. "It is what it is."

  "And what is that?"

  "An accident. A tragedy. An unfortunate mishap. Depending on the news source." A tiny laugh. "But then, my past is littered with those." I blow against my coffee, sit back, feel my forehead with my palm, face simmering with embarrassment. "God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be telling you this."

  "I believe all our pasts are riddled with unfortunate mishaps," Luke says.

  "Yeah, you're probably right. Anyway, I had some ideas. About your candidate, I mean," I go on, changing the subject.

  "You know, I'd rather not discuss politics," Luke confesses, tossing his napkin to the table. "That's not why I accepted your invitation. It's not even why I approached you last evening." He glances sideways, distracted. "The truth is I was desperate for a reason to speak to you."

  The confession affects me in the most unexpected ways. In my pulse as it flutters, my breath as it shallows.

  "Besides," he continues. "Youth vote or not, he'll win."

  "Really. You're that confident," I reply, unconvinced, but grateful for the preserver in this conversation—something to hold on to. This anchor to keep me grounded.

  "Absolutely. My candidates never lose." His eyes twinkle, knowing. Behind them, a closet of secrets.

  The topic shifts again, the waitress removes our empty dessert plates, and I lose count of the number of drinks Luke consumes. It's not until I realize we're the only ones left in the dining room that I think to check the time and apologize for keeping him so long.

  Luke leans back in his seat, eyes glassy, without an edge, all hollow green—sparkling and beautiful. "Don't apologize. I had a wonderful time."

  "Me too. It was nice, you know, to talk to someone." And it's not until the words are spoken that I recognize the truth in them.

  "The pleasure's entirely mine. I appreciate your inviting me."

  I wave toward the bar, collecting our waitress's attention. "I can't believe I lost track of time like that. I'm surprised they didn't kick us out earlier, to be honest."

  "Trust me," Luke says, polishing off the remaining drink. "We're the last people in this hotel they want to offend."

  "It's just that . . . I used to wait tables," I explain. "And I hated when people hung around after closing. Here I am, sweeping the floors and flipping chairs over. . . . It's like, take a hint, you know?"

  He laughs. "Nothing a little extra tip money wouldn't take care of, I'm sure."

  "Yeah. Unfortunately, real life doesn't work that way."

  "Your check?" I take the leather folio from the waitress before Luke has a chance, open it, eyes scanning the bill, staggering when I reach the total.

  Shit.

  I fight to sustain composure, even as my hand shakes filling in the number for a generous tip, easing the sting of having to wait. "Please bill this to my room," I say, handing it back to her. When I glance at Luke, he's eyeing me curiously. "My idea, my treat," I explain, flashing a confident smile.

  He calls the waitress by name, who quickly returns. "Please put that on my tab," he corrects.

  "Absolutely, Mr. Castellani."

  She vanishes, disappearing before I find words to argue, because when Luke Castellani speaks, everyone listens.

  TWENTY-THREE

  We say goodnight at the lobby elevator, though Luke offers to walk me to my room. At some point between pushing the chair beneath the table and pressing the arrow pointing up, it's dawned on me that we just spent hours together and I still know nothing about him. I have no clues. No insight as to who he is. What I do know is that I won't get away with killing him in this hotel. Not with so many people around, curious and watching. What I need is to build trust. A relationship.

  He waits by the penthouse elevator, key in hand.

  "We should do this again," I suggest.

  "I'd like that."

  He's still smiling when the elevator doors close between us.

  "Enjoy your evening?"

  I jump, fear prickling my skin. "Jesus!" I hiss.

  "Jesus can't help you now, sweetheart," Viola says.

  I study her through the reflection in platinum doors. Same furious red hair. S
ame tattoos snaking up her arm. As if she never disappeared. This night the same as all the others—the fire at Ernie's, the fire at the warehouse. She's still bashing my head against mirrors. Still shoving my head below water.

  "I thought I asked you to stay close by," she continues.

  The elevator lifts. "As if you're not watching. Like you don't know where I am every second of every day."

  A sinister smile. "Point taken. Travelling without your husband?" The word rolls from her lips like some kind of poison. I face her, eyes narrowing, take both hands and shove her hard against the shoulders. She falls back, stumbling, surprised, smashing the side of the elevator as we rise. I lift the hem of my skirt, reach for the gun.

  "There are cameras," she reminds me, tucked in the corner. "And you don't know if they can see me or not. Besides, you already tried that once. It didn't end well."

  I freeze, remembering; fix my dress, standing taller.

  The elevator dings.

  "Where is Seth? What did you do to him?"

  "Let's focus on the present for a moment." The doors open. We step into the hallway—alone—walk toward my room. "What are you doing with Lucien Castellani?" she asks, voice low.

  "His name is Luke."

  A sharp laugh. "So that's what he's going by now? His real name is Lucien."

  "I know his real name," I say, rooting around my bag, searching for my key. I'd probably go by Luke, too, if I were him."

  "He used to wear the name proudly."

  I slip the key into the lock. The light flashes green. Viola follows me inside.

  "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."

  TWENTY-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, bu
stle 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.