Revelation (The Guardians, Book 3)

by Katie Klein

  "No one is guarding you. The Council made sure of that." She collapses on the king-size bed, red hair fanning around her.

  "Does Luke . . . can he see that? That I'm not guarded?"

  "Who cares? All you have to do is get rid of him and Seth is yours."

  "You said he was really powerful," I remind her. "Is that why he's interested in me? I'm like a . . . a free agent or something? Fair game?"

  She props herself up with her elbows, a defiant glare twisting her features. "Lucien doesn't pay attention to just anyone. If he wants you, no Guardian can stop him, trust me."

  "What do you mean, if he wants me?"

  Her eyes roll in exasperation. "Look around you, Genesis."

  I take in the room. The suite. The flowers. Everything he's given me so far. "It doesn't matter. It's not like that. I love Seth. Luke Castellani will never change that."

  She rises, eyes narrowing. "He can change that. And if he wants you badly enough, he will."

  "You can't make someone fall in love with someone else. I have free will."

  She moves toward me, inching closer until she's almost standing on top of me, hovering, looking down on me—though we're practically the same height. "You don't understand," she says. "Your free will means nothing. You'll forget everything you thought you knew. He'll tempt you until you can't say no. Until you choose him. The dinners? The room? The flowers? He'll offer you the entire world until you're his. Everything."

  "I was already offered the world," I remind her. "I refused then. I'll refuse again."

  She steps back. "Lucien Castellani is never refused. You have no idea what you're up against. The sooner he's gone, the better off you'll be."

  I blink, and the room is empty.

  TWENTY-SIX

  When I arrive at the restaurant the hostess greets me by name, smiling brightly. She grabs a menu and leads me to a booth in the back—a darker, more secluded corner. Luke, ever the gentleman, rises when he sees me, green eyes lighting.

  "Genesis." He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my cheek, day-old stubble grazing my skin.

  My eyes drift shut as I breathe in his cologne, knees wobbling under my weight, spine tingling.

  Don't let him get to you.

  "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."

  TWENTY-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.

  He speaks through clenched teeth. "Who sent you? Answer me."

  "No one. We just met," I choke. The words refuse to pass my lips, make no sound at all.

  He loosens his grip, then releases me, stepping back. "You're spending a lot of time together."

  "You're watching me?" I whisper.

  "Everyone is watching you," he replies.

  A deadly chill races across my skin, breath turning to fog, mimicking the angry blue heat spewing from laundromat vents. I reach between the folds of my coat, easing closer, closer, feeling for my skirt. My gun.

  "Stay away from him," the man warns, "or you won't live to see another sunrise."

  Fingers wrap around the handle.

  Someone else is on us now. The men turn, distracted, and I use the moment to swing my arm around, press the gun into his right forearm, and squeeze the trigger.

  A scream. I don't know if it's his or mine, but by the time my eyes re-adjust he's gone. They're gone. I run, heading for the other end of the alley, as far away from this place as my legs will carry me. My ears ring, humming. Feet striking pavement.

  I'm not alone.

  I feel it—him—behind me. Chasing. A side street and another alley, dodging trash cans, street debris, glass and rock crunching underfoot.

  His hand wraps around my arm, forcing me to slow.

  "Stop!"

  I know he's shouted the word, but I can barely hear it it's so far away, muffled.

  I stumble, and he pushes me into the wall. "Genesis, stop!" he begs.

  A surge of relief pours from my body, tears springing to eyes.

  "Oh my God!" I run my thumb across his chin, feel the contours of his face. Examine his eyes. His lips. I must repeat his name over and over again, a thousand times, chest wracked with sobs. "Carter! What the hell are you doing? I thought you were dead!"

  "Shhh. I'm here," he says, hushing me. "I'm here! It's okay! Are you all right?"

  Hot tears smear beneath his fingers, cooling against my cheeks. I nod. "I'm fine. What are you . . . I don't . . . I don't understand. How are you. . . ?" I can't finish a thought. Can't find a solid breath.

  He yanks my purse off my shoulder, fishing through it. "Dammit, Genesis. You never have your inhaler!"

  A shaky laugh, borderline hysterical. "You're pissed! I am so freaking glad you're pissed!"

  "Calm down," he insists. "Breathe."

  "I'm fine. I'm just—you have no idea how happy I am to see you."

  He searches the space around us. "We need to talk, but it's not safe here. Come with me."

  We exit the alley, circle the block, stopping just outside a coffee shop. "Your coat," he says, nodding toward it. "You can't wear that inside."

  My white winter coat is dirty, splattered with what—even in the dark—looks like blood. He's right. I can't go anywhere looking like this, so I slip it off my shoulders, shivering against cold, shove it into the trashcan by the entrance.

  "And you dropped this." He removes my handgun from his belt. "Hang on tighter next time."

  It's late. The restaurant is barely half full. Fresh coffee, ground beans, chocolate, the wood burning fireplace—the smells assault my senses, heat warms my skin. A radio station pipes in music—something alternative—overhead. We wind between tables, settling in a darkened corner.

  "What is going on?" I ask Carter, pulling out the chair across from him. "Everyone thinks you died!"

  "It was the best thing to do," he says. "I can protect you better this way."

  "I don't understand. . . ."

  "Carter is one of us now."

  Mara. She sits down beside him, glancing
furtively across the restaurant.

  My eyes narrow, bouncing back and forth between them, trying to grasp the meaning of this. "You're a Guardian? But Seth said. . . . How is that even possible?"

  "It's possible because that's what the Council was—is—doing. They're turning people into Guardians," Carter explains. "Surprise." The revelation falls flat.

  "Carter was gracious enough to allow me to test the theory on him. But it's true," Mara confirms. "The Council is taking those who will not be missed. They're building an army, padding their ranks with humans."

  "I don't. . . . What?"

  "It's become something of a social experiment for them," she continues, "but it's failing miserably. There have been problems—glitches that the Council did not anticipate."

  "What kinds of glitches?" I ask.

  "Memories, for instance," Mara says. "The human mind is powerful. It refuses to forget on its own. To let go. The Council has been forced to eradicate memories after every few charges. But even then there are no guarantees."

  Eradicating memories. Making Guardians forget.

  Joshua.

  "I saw Joshua," I tell her. "On the beach. He had no idea who I was!"

  "I know. That's something Carter and I discussed, and I'm sorry we didn't tell you sooner. I know it upset you."

  "What else?"

  "The Council didn't take free will into consideration, either. The human-Guardians are falling at an unprecedented rate."

  "Falling," I repeat. "So, they're becoming demons?"

  "Not immediately," she says. "But inevitably."

  A waitress arrives to take our order. Carter and Mara opt for water. I order a coffee. Decaf. A habit it appears I will never shake.

  "Seth couldn't remember anything before me," I remind them, as soon as we're alone again. "He didn't remember anyone. And you know he doubted the Council. He didn't trust them. It would explain why the two of you didn't know each other, when you guys are supposed to have been around forever."

  "I know," Mara replies. "It would also explain his connection to you—his feelings for you. Even if he didn't remember his previous life, something was pulling him toward you. He couldn't fight it. It wasn't worth fighting, to him. It wasn't typical Guardian behavior. We could all see that."