by Katie Klein
He eventually pulls away, hand poised on the small of my back, guiding me along the perimeter of the room. "Money. Work. Money. It's as if they have nothing better to discuss," he says, an uncomfortable edge to his tone. "You must be bored to death."
"I don't mind."
He reaches for two wine glasses, passing one to me. I could use another.
"Well, I do. There will be no more talk of layoffs, mergers, or acquisitions. Tonight will be fun." He raises his glass to me. "To us."
I lift mine. "To having fun," I reply.
We drink, watching the assembly from a safe distance. The sounds of the ensemble—violins, cellos, double basses—drift happily between us.
Talk to him, the voice in my head demands. If Viola was right—if he is a demon—then weapons are meaningless until you know what drives him. You have to know what he wants.
"Would you like to dance?" Luke asks, puncturing my thoughts, gesturing toward the floor.
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.
TWENTY-FIVE
My eyelids flutter. The room is dim, door closed. But it isn't my door. Or my room. This isn't my room and these aren't my things. I bolt upright, panicked, dress rustling beneath me.
The gun.
I feel for my thigh holster. Still there. The cool steel. Still there. I exhale relief. My mouth is parched, dry. It tastes like medicine.
How did I get here?
My mind spins, searching, grasping for the last thing I remember clearly. We were dancing. I left the ballroom—made it to the hallway before Luke stopped me. I must have fainted. After that. . . .
Entire hours are unaccounted for.
What the hell? Anything could have happened!
I slide off the bed, wavering as I stand, unsteady on my feet.
In the bathroom, I fill a glass with water. I look as wretched as I feel. Mascara-streaked cheeks. Hair spiked from sleep. The dress, which seemed a brilliant idea yesterday, reveals entirely too much today. I grab a towel from the rack, hiding my chest and shoulders.
Beyond the bedroom door is a large common room and dining area. A full kitchen. Stairs leading to another floor. An entire wall of windows parading dramatic views of city skyline. Vases of fresh flowers. Potted trees. A large, stone statue—a primitive kind of design carved into granite. I tip my head toward the ceiling. It's massive—like something out of a magazine.
"Good morning," a voice calls. "You must be Genesis." The man is on the shorter side. Bald, but young—as if he shaves his head on purpose. Not a wrinkle in sight. He clears his throat, continuing. "Mr. Castellani called room service. It just arrived, so your food should still be warm." He walks to the dining room table, removes stainless steel lids from several plates.
The penthouse.
I'm in the penthouse.
I sit down at the head of the table, study the view—beyond the buildings—hazy forests tucked into the distance. And somewhere, an ocean.
"He also wanted me to apologize for leaving early. He has meetings all day."
"Who are you?" I ask, reaching for a fork.
"Charles. I'm Mr. Castellani's personal assistant."
"What does a personal assistant do?"
He laughs. "Anything Mr. Castellani doesn't want to do himself."
I eye him carefully. It's impossible to tell. . . . They look so much like us.
Does he know what Luke Castellani is?
Is he one of them?
I spear a bite of scrambled eggs. They're lukewarm—not nearly as good as Stu's, and my mouth twists with disapproval.
"If I may be so bold, Ms. Fleming, may I ask: what interest do you have with Mr. Castellani?"
"You may be so bold," I reply, chewing. "But I'd imagine it's the same interest every woman in this hotel has." Charles's face flushes pink. I attempt another taste of eggs. "Now, if I may be so bold: what interest does Luke have with me?"
He smiles, intrigued by the game. "You're on a first name basis, then."
"Your words, not mine."
"I apologize. I don't discuss matters of this nature with Luke. How he spends his free time is none of my concern."
I stifle a laugh at this indirect blow, this strike against my character, at the impression that I am just one of many. "I suppose I'm not the first girl who's woken up in Mr. Castellani's penthouse surprised to find him missing."
"No," he confirms. A sly smile. "You are, however, the first to awaken in his guest bedroom."
"At least we know where I stand," I tease, ignoring the sting of what might be jealousy stabbing my skin. I toss my napkin aside, refusing another bite. "Look, Charlie, I'm not a big breakfast person. Please tell Luke thank you for me, but I should get back to my room." The chair slides behind me as I rise.
"Of course. I'll get your things." He bends at the waist, a bow, and disappears.
I use the chance moment alone to take a quick inventory, but everything—from magazines tossed haphazardly on end tables to pictures hanging on walls—appears hotel-issued. No definitive evidence of Lucien Castellani anywhere.
"Here you are. Your purse. Your inhaler. And. . . ." He fumbles around his coat pocket, removes a plastic card. "Your new room key."
"Where did you get this?" I ask, taking the inhaler from him, examining it.
"A gentleman brought it over last night. One of the hotel workers. They found it in your purse when you left the ballroom."
"I didn't take my inhaler," I mutter. "Or a purse." But they're mine.
How did my inhaler and my purse end up at last night's event? They were locked in my room.
"Wait!" I call to Charles, who's already approaching the elevator. "Did you say new room key?"
Two floors from the penthouse, I follow him down a long, quiet hallway, barefoot, dress swishing about my legs. "Mr. Castellani was very concerned last night. He insisted your things be moved to one of the suites." He stops in front of a door, slips the card into the lock. When the light turns green, we enter.
"Holy shit," I whisper.
It's beautiful, huge, like my current room on steroids, one of the most amazing apartments I've ever seen—penthouse aside. Canopy bed, crystal chandeliers, white paneling. And every available surface covered in vases of sunflowers. A hundred or more stems of the happy, yellow blossom.
"Looks like he insisted on flowers, too."
When I glance at
Charles, his eyes are wide, face etched with what might be concern. "So it would seem."
* * *
Dinner?
I toss the card on the bed, run fingers through my hair. A hot bath would be perfect right now. A hot bath and a toothbrush and . . .
"I just want to say: last night? That was beautiful. I mean, look at this!"
I jump, heart racing, lungs paralyzed. It will never matter the number of times someone leaps from the shadows and enters my world. I will never be prepared for it, will never get used to it. My pulse will always spike. Hairs on my neck will always lift. It will always piss me off to the nth degree—this reminder—what little control I have. "What are you doing here?"
Viola moves to one of the vases, breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of sunflower petals. "Checking on you. That was quite a show you put on. You actually had me worried."
"It wasn't a show."
"He's a sucker for damsels in distress, you know. Played right into the whole pathetic charade. The bastard."
"It wasn't me. And it wasn't a charade. He was—he was doing something to me. Screwing with my head. My emotions. Something. And I know you were there, Viola. Did you have anything to do with why I couldn't breathe?"
A giddy laugh. "You give me too much credit, sometimes."
"Then why were my purse and inhaler there?" I demand to know, temper sparking. "I didn't take a purse last night. It's like someone knew I would need it."
"It's irrelevant. What matters is that Lucien Castellani put you up in a suite, no questions asked. And you've only known him what, three days? I have to admit, this is happening much faster than I expected."
"You're spending time in the other realm, too, right?" I ask, ignoring her. "Am I guarded?"
"No. Not that I've seen."
"Then who brought Luke my purse and inhaler?"
"I didn't see anyone bring him anything."
I rationalize, retracing what I remember of the night in my head. "I didn't take my purse downstairs, and my inhaler stays in my makeup bag. Someone had to bring it to him. Someone who had access to my room."