Revelation (The Guardians, Book 3)

by Katie Klein

  For the first time he's sleeping.

  And something inside breaks—the world fractures—a violent swell dragging me below surface. I cover my mouth with my hand, faint, unsteady, breathing the same breath over and over and over and over.

  Until I let go of him, reach for my gun, rise to my full height. I wipe my nose against the cuff of my sleeve, swat tears from my eyes.

  I stare at it—the cold, heavy steel. I cock it, inserting a fresh bullet in the chamber.

  And I laugh.

  "Gee," Carter whispers.

  I point the gun to my head, addressing the Council. "This is what you want, isn't it? After everything you've done to me. This is what you wanted. This is exactly what you were hoping for."

  Council members exchange nervous glances.

  "Genesis, please." Luke inches closer, reaching to stop me.

  I remove the gun from my temple, turning it on him. "Shut the fuck up." He steps back, hands raised, cautious.

  The power—the electricity—flickers overhead, plunging us into darkness then sputtering back to life. My heart stands still. We each look to the ceiling, watching, waiting, wondering what will happen next.

  "Genesis," Silas calls after a few, quiet moments. "This is the easiest thing you will ever do. Look what he did to Seth. You've lost him forever. He took him from you."

  He took him from me.

  He took him from me.

  And two, simple words ring in my ears: It's over.

  I turn toward Silas, eyes hard, determined, and lower the gun, aiming for the row of Council members. Each target hit in succession, the next one after the one before him—her—as if something else—something more powerful guides my hand. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  A gasp.

  It worked.

  They fall in a wave, flesh ripping, silencer muffling every bang. Motionless. Bleeding from their desire for more, their hunger for power, their selfishness.

  Silas's eyes widen, disbelieving, but no one is more surprised than me. "How did you . . . ," he begins, but he doesn't finish. I refuse to let him finish.

  Everyone is driven by something. Something that motivates them deep within. Stirring their very core. And this one—this is the easiest of all. Because Silas is more wicked, more malicious than any demon I've ever encountered. His eyes grow wide. I pull the trigger, silencing him.

  "Mara trained me well," I answer, gun falling to my side.

  The cartridge is empty. Eight shots. Seth. The Council. But there's one more.

  I click the magazine. It falls, skittering across hardwood floor.

  I reach for my back pocket, remove the additional cartridge. Only one bullet. One more shot and I'm done.

  Forever.

  "Genesis!"

  I find Luke first, the voice in my head whispering a name. And I turn to see her arm extended, gun—my gun—gripped tightly in her fingers, fitting her palm perfectly, as if waiting a lifetime for this moment.

  This is it.

  Her eyes narrow, centering, empty.

  This is where I die.

  I hear the explosion, feel the flinch, see sparks—a stunning display of fireworks. The bullet bursts midair, shattering halfway between us, a stream of fire charging, traveling back to her. The gun falls to the floor, but the damage is done. I don't know what—I don't know how—but I cover my mouth and nose, protecting them from the acrid smell of burning flesh. Screams muted by the roar of flames, tattoos melting, skin dripping off her arm.

  But there's only one way to be certain. One way to be sure—to know this is really over. So I point my gun.

  Resentment.

  Close my eyes.

  Squeeze the trigger.

  And, when they open. . . . Nothing. Nothing but a pile of sand and ash on the penthouse floor.

  The phone rings.

  The scene like something out of a slasher film. Death and gunpowder and smoke hang in the air, burning my nose. The metal bite of blood. Blood pooling around their bodies, brilliant sprays seeping into furniture. The walls. The floor.

  And the phone rings.

  "May I?" Luke asks me, still cautious.

  And it rings.

  He motions for Charles to answer. Charles picks it up, greets the caller, then listens. "Everything is fine," he says, eyeing me carefully. "The television must have been too loud. Mr. Castellani is terribly sorry for any inconvenience." I'm sure it's the night manager. And that he or she is scattering apologies like seeds, insisting there's no trouble—despite the noise complaint. Because that's what happens when you're VIP. Everyone turns the other way.

  Hands wipe my eyes, palms slick with sweat, a riot of emotions swallowing me whole. Images churning in my mind, over and over, permanently etching themselves into my subconscious, ready to haunt me forever.

  When I open them, Seth is gone. Viola is gone. The Council—gone. The entire room wiped clean. No blood. No damage. Nothing. As if this night never transpired, this trial never took place, though the entire world—Heaven and Hell—has shifted. I can feel it.

  I turn to Mara. "Please," I beg. "Tell me this is over."

  She forces a smile. "It's finished."

  It's finished. But I can't feel relief.

  "He was right," I choke, strangled, swallowing hard. "I would've fought for him. I would've picked wrong."

  "No one would have blamed you," she assures me. "He was worth fighting for."

  I hold my breath, eyes stinging. I exhale, lungs shuddering. "I need a minute," I tell Mara, Carter. "I need a minute alone with him." Luke's eyes meet mine. He nods, and even Charles disappears, everyone deserting us.

  "I suppose you're going to kill me now," he says after a few, quiet moments.

  "Don't tempt me. I have seven bullets left. And I know what drives you." I point the gun straight to his heart, to the source that binds him.

  "It wouldn’t matter. Either way, I lose."

  The you, unsaid, hovers between us.

  "I know. Which is why I think life is pain enough. Passing through the centuries, driving people to their deaths. Taking what belongs to them. Losing everyone you've made the mistake of loving." The gun falls to my side. "You're not my responsibility. Your day is coming, but I won't be on the other end. I won't pull the trigger."

  "I appreciate knowing that," he says.

  "I'm not going to Europe with you."

  A sad smile. "I know."

  I slide the bracelet—diamond-encrusted flowers—off my wrist, gently place it on the end table.

  The weight of the night's events presses against my shoulders, consuming. Seth is dead. Viola is dead. I killed an entire angel council. Luke's mark blisters against my skin. "What's going to happen to me?"

  "I don't know," he confesses.

  "There are no rules for this," I confirm, suppressing a thousand thoughts, instants, reflections surging through my head, which throbs with relentless ache. A hasty breath. "I'm going home. I'm leaving, and I want to be left alone. I won't be indebted to you—or anyone." I move toward the elevator, turning from him.

  "Please," he insists. "Before you go, I'd like to thank you. For sparing my life, I mean. This isn't something I will forget, I promise you."

  "I just lost the only promise that matters. He's suffering now, because of me."

  Luke shakes his head, disagreeing, voice dimming. "He's not suffering, Genesis. He made the greatest sacrifice of all. He gave his life for you. That isn't something Hell can hold."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I jerk awake, wrestling upright, throw the comforter aside. My feet find the floor and I stumble-run to the bathroom, flip on the light, reaching the toilet. My stomach churns, chest heaving, and I gag, retching as bile rises in my throat. I heave, coughing. Sputtering. Mouth burning. And even now I wonder how there's anything left to throw up.

  Carter enters as I flush. I blink back tears, squinting against brightness, wiping the edges of my mouth.

  "You okay?"

  I swallow the lum
p jamming my throat. "I should've done something," I say. "I should've known. Should've seen. It was never Luke. It was always Viola. The Council."

  "You did everything you possibly could," he says.

  "I could have saved him."

  "There's no way you could have known, Gee. The whole thing was fucked up."

  I run my nose against sleeve.

  "I hate him," I whisper. "I hate him for doing this to me. For leaving me here. And for what? Stu is gone. Selena's gone. Joshua. What was the point, Carter?"

  He shakes his head, because he doesn't know, either.

  He tried so hard to keep you from all of this. You knew he would take your place. You knew if it came down to his life or yours, he'd pick you, the voice in my head reminds me.

  I finally pull myself off the floor. Brush my teeth. Wash my face with cool water.

  When I climb back into bed Carter is there, waiting for me. Carter, who doesn't sleep—who stays awake for me.

  I don't mind sleep. It isn't sleep that haunts. It's daylight. The nightmares behind open eyes. The memories relived over and over in my mind.

  "I'm so scared," I confess, pulling comforter to chin.

  "You don't have to be afraid anymore," Carter says. "You're safe. That's the only thing he ever wanted for you."

  "No. It's not that. I'm afraid—I'm afraid I'll forget. But I'm afraid I'm going to remember, too. And right now I don't know which is worse."

  * * *

  Suitcase wheels click across seams in the marble floor.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Fleming," the manager says—the very manager who refused to check me in that first day. That first day, which already feels a lifetime ago. "I hope you're feeling better."

  I force a smile. "Stomach flu. What can you do, right? I need to check out."

  "Absolutely. Let me just pull up your information." She strikes computer keys—clacking, clacking, clacking—and studies the screen, frowning. "There doesn't seem to be. . . ." She trails off. "Just one moment." More clacking. "Okay. It appears Mr. Castellani had everything billed to his account. He moved you to a suite, correct?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, according to this, he had everything transferred at that time. What a nice surprise," she adds, smiling brightly, admiration in her eyes. As if being a Fleming, attending the galas, commanding attention from Luke Castellani somehow makes me worthy.

  "So . . . the room? The meals?"

  "Everything shows up on Mr. Castellani's bill."

  "Well, can you take it off his account?" I ask, temper sparking. "I can pay for my own room."

  "I suppose I could, but there's no need. Everything is already paid for."

  "You're serious?"

  "Both accounts are current as of. . . ." She checks the screen, then her watch, eyebrows furrowing. "This morning."

  I heave a sigh. "Great. Has Mr. Castellani checked out, yet?"

  "He did. He left last week."

  "Amsterdam," I mutter, remembering. "That's right."

  She smiles a cheerful smile, that five years of service pin reflecting the light overhead. "We hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mrs. Fleming. Please come again."

  * * *

  The valet pulls Carter's SUV around and loads my bag. Halfway down the block, he appears.

  "Holy shit," I mutter. "Okay, we gotta come up with some kind of warning system for you, because I'm done with this. I'm over it. I can't take any more jumping out of nowhere."

  A tiny laugh. He reaches for the handle above the passenger side door, peers out the window. "You want me to drive?"

  "No, I'm fine. Just enjoy the ride."

  But progress is slow. City traffic. I've left at the worst possible moment: morning rush hour. When we finally reach the outskirts I check my mirrors, change lanes, the pressure easing.

  "Would you believe me if I told you Luke paid for my entire stay?"

  "Yes."

  "He took care of everything. The room, the food. Jesus—I even had new clothes charged to that account."

  "It was the least he could do. You could've easily turned that gun on him."

  We fall into thick silence, focused, radio muted, nothing except the drone of engine, tires spinning over asphalt.

  "So how did you figure it out?" he finally asks. "His center, I mean—what drove him."

  "I had it wrong, at first. I thought it was lust because of his relationships, his interest in me. But then—after the mark, when he was talking to the Council—I realized: he has nothing. No one. If Mara is right, and the curse is true, then everything he's made the mistake of loving has been taken from him. And you saw what happened to the human Guardians. You can't force people not to fall in love."

  Fate, free will, whatever you want to call it, it's not something that can be crammed into a tiny box. It's not a single idea or one feeling. And it can't be controlled. Luke Castellani has a past. It's all there, written in his eyes. I can't be the first he's marked—just the first that got away.

  "I don't know," I go on. "I think he's making the best of what was an epic mistake. I would be disappointed, too."

  "And the Council? How did you know they had centers?"

  "I didn't. Not for sure. Mara even told me once that Guardians can't be created or destroyed. But, thanks to you, I knew the Council was creating them, so why couldn't they be destroyed, too? As far as the centers . . . the Diabols are fallen angels, right? I mean, I know it's more complicated, but if you can eliminate evil through a single center, why wouldn't it work in reverse? Why couldn't you take out good—and I use that term loosely—the exact same way? It was actually a lucky guess. The truth is I would've kept shooting until they died, or until the bullets ran out, or until they stopped me—whichever came first. At that point I had nothing to lose."

  "I wish you wouldn't talk like that," he says, frowning.

  I stifle an angry laugh. "Why? I'm still here. I won, remember?"

  We travel that lonely highway, that long expanse of road leading to the coast.

  "I don't know why I'm going back," I mutter as the first South Marshall sign comes into view.

  "Where else would you go? You belong here, Gee. Don't deny it."

  "Yeah, but. . . . What am I gonna do here?" I ask.

  "Live."

  "That's so easy for you to say. You have Mara. Other Guardians. You have something waiting for you. I've got nothing, Carter. Nothing." I swallow hard, forcing back unexpected tears pricking my eyes.

  "You have me," he reminds me. "I won't leave you. I'll stay with you—for as long as you need."

  "Thank you," I say, stealing a glance at him. "For everything."

  He reaches across the cab, hand resting on my shoulder, thumb stroking my neck, touching my skin. "Thank you," he replies. "For everything else."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  When the someone you love most dies, it's like the entire world explodes. Shattering. And all that's left is you, alone, picking up piece after piece, tucking them in your arms, the millions of splintered fragments scattered from one oblivion to the other. But anyone who's tried to paste together a broken heart understands the enormity of this task. The physical impossibility. Because try as you may, there are shards that will never be found, slivers that will never fit, pieces stolen long before they ever vanished.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I tighten the scarf around my neck, but it does little to deflect the cold, the frigid air rolling off the ocean. My boots sink in sand with every step, breath turns to smoke, vanishing. Clouds hang low in the sky, full and gray, ready to burst at any moment. Briny water tumbles over itself, choppy waves collapsing to shore. And I wonder how the world can be so loud yet so incredibly silent—how it's possible for life to sprint on while time stands still.

  A sandpiper skitters past. It's only the two of us on this stretch of beach—only a few of us left. But they'll be back. The gray-blue water, warm breeze, the spring sun will eventually call them home. Until then, the universe is frozen. Waiting.

&nbs
p; Because this—this is the hardest part of winter. And I think, if I can just get through this day, I'll be all right. And I think the same thing the day after. And the day after that—until a week has passed and I'm still okay. I can still breathe. Even if it hurts. . . . I'll make it.

  I feel something behind me. A presence. I close my eyes, inhale, icy air chilling my lungs.

  Carter?

  Seth?

  But when I turn, I'm alone.

  Not entirely alone, though. Someone is in the shadows. Someone watches over me. I don't know who. The truth is I'll probably never know. I don't even think I want to know.

  In the end, I got exactly what I asked for—I made a difference. But it doesn't feel that way. It doesn't feel that way because it isn't tangible. The difference isn't something that can be felt or touched or even seen.

  An entire regime was overthrown. I overthrew them. And yet, when people put their heads on their pillows at night, they are none the wiser. No one will ever know the role I played. Stu, Selena, that little boy whose face I still see when I close my eyes, Seth—all pawns in the game of Higher Purpose. Casualties.

  And no one will ever know.

  I will never know why the Council picked me. I will never know if I was supposed to die in that accident, on that dark highway, on that dark night. I will never know the rest of Viola's story. I will never know how Seth managed to find his way back to me, over and over again. I'll probably never know where my mom—my erratic mother who was never quite a mother to me—went. I'll never understand why. I'll never fully know who was responsible for what—Viola, the Council. I'll never know what Luke saw in me—what made me worth saving. I will never fully grasp the ripple effect, the impact made in that invisible world.

  And I marvel at how our paths interconnect, how we are intricately woven into a tangled existence. Because without one, there is no other. Without the Council, no Seth. Without Carter—the accident—no reason for Seth to appear. Without the visions, no Viola. Without Mara, I could have never defeated them all. We are all linked—our legend, One.