“They’re that good. Take it, it’s all yours!”
“What is it?” I picked up the warm cloud of puffed pastry with some kind of sauce and spice dusted on top. The whole thing was barely bigger than a chocolate candy.
“A little bit of heaven.”
I popped it in my mouth, in one bite. “Mmmm,” I purred. It was very pretty and very tasty—melty with cheese inside, and sweet with the slightest kick. Whatever it was, I could’ve eaten ten more.
“Good, right? Better go, Etan’s got me workin’ like mad. Catch up tomorrow?” He kissed me on the cheek.
“Definitely. Have fun!”
He waved and hoisted the tray up on one hand, making his way through the crowd. He looked like this was his party, and he was the perfect host.
I watched as the revelry spun around me. I was part of this too. But still, I wasn’t sure what it would take for me to feel included, to not be waiting for someone to discover I didn’t belong.
As the night went on, I managed to sample more bits and bites from Dante and Etan’s test kitchen on trays hoisted by gorgeous servers. I’d eaten enough that the night could’ve been gluttony instead of sloth, but through it all I had snapped my photos, so there would be plenty to show to Aurelia. I could safely call it a night. But first, one last shot. The last shot is always the boldest, because you know you’re about to escape and have nothing to lose.
I crept up the stairs of the ring of fire, and just before reaching the top of the platform, I caught sight of Lance and Raphaella. He was talking to her and she was just staring at him, her fingers playing with that necklace, fluttering over it. He didn’t see me take the picture. I was sure he would be glad to know I had, though.
I scanned quickly: no Lucian. But I did see Beckett. He had a drink in his hand and watched the floor of the club over the top of the flames, in a way that convinced me this was the first time he had been permitted to leave his post at the door to see the place from this privileged vantage point. He was in profile and then he turned: he had a patch over one eye.
12. Don’t Get Too Comfortable
I skulked back down the stairs and scurried out of the club, my pace as brisk as possible without incurring notice or causing alarm. I just needed to go. I was probably overreacting, but I preferred to overreact from the comfort of my room, not in close proximity to someone who may have possibly roughed me up in the aisle of a drugstore and mugged a woman. I got to my room and felt achingly alone. So much so that I didn’t know if I’d be able to sleep. Then it hit me: it wasn’t exactly my decision whether or not I could sleep. That book was really starting to cramp my style. I snuggled back against the wall with it and began turning those familiar pages, turning, turning. And there it was, as expected, today’s date and fresh writing.
You are tired from the exertions of last night. Rest, winged one. But don‘t get too comfortable. Shore up your strength for what‘s to come.
Your training must begin in earnest tomorrow. Tomorrow night, you will steal away down the passageway you discovered and run from the starting point at the bottom of the ladder to the farthest point you found—
I thought of that distance now, that bar with the music, the storage room—that would be the finish line, according to this.
And then you will run back. Go to your fullest potential for an hour, every other day until further notice. You will eventually need to make this distance lightning fast; this skill may one day save your life.
I didn’t know exactly how fast I was capable of running, nor did I know the precise distance between these two points. I only knew that it was pretty far and that I was no track and field champion. I got the idea that the book was taunting me for being in relatively poor shape, which I didn’t appreciate. It went on.
This will be your primary interest for the next week or so. Otherwise, simply do as others tell you. Do your best to not draw attention to yourself. Whatever discoveries you may make over the course of these next several days, tuck them away. You will be told when it‘s time to investigate them.
And steel yourself. You will soon be tested in a manner you have never known.
I flipped through a couple pages to see if there was anything else, but no. This brief missive, more vague than any I’d received so far, hit me harder than anything the book had told me since that dreaded first entry. There is nothing worse than knowing something life-shattering is headed your way and being powerless to stop it.
But nothing could be done tonight, so I tucked the book away in the night table and, noticing the closet light on, ducked in to pull the string. It came off in my hands with the twang of a busted guitar string. I took out my flashlight and climbed up the ladder. I shined the light up, threaded the string through a tiny eyelet on the fixture, and tied a quadruple knot, giving it a few good tugs. But the motion made me slip, and I threw my hand on the ceiling to steady myself. To my surprise, the panel groaned hollowly and lifted up. My stomach tightening, I slowly slid the whole flimsy panel to the side, peeking in. My light beam caught a flurry of dust, cobwebs, and a narrow passageway, large enough to crawl through. I couldn’t begin to imagine where this might lead but I had a feeling I would be forced to find out. Tonight though, it seemed I would be off the hook. So I wedged that trusty desk chair under the doorknob again and crawled into bed.
As instructed, I kept a low profile and spent the following day painting after showing Aurelia the club photos. She was pleased and told me to have Lance upload them to add to the loop of shots flashing on the flat screen at the front desk, then ordered me to take more photos the night of the gala opening, a vote of confidence that made me proud. But, even so, I sleepwalked through much of the day, that dread setting in at the back of my mind and in the pit of my stomach, clouding my thoughts as each hour passed bringing me closer to evening when I would be forced to descend and run through the underground. I prayed that I would simply be running and not running from anyone. It had been a close call with Beckett and I didn’t want to think about what might happen if I saw him again and wasn’t so lucky in hiding. I didn’t really want to come across any members of the Outfit down there, or anyone at all.
At the end of the day, Lance and I cleaned up and grabbed a sandwich in the Parlor kitchen. I needed to think of something else, anything else, so I pressed him about a certain matter that he hadn’t breathed a word of all day.
“So . . . how’d it go last night with Raphaella? She’s, like, freakishly beautiful. Like, underwear model beautiful.”
He shrugged, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Yeah.” He chewed, and then he took another bite. And then he chewed some more. Another bite. I watched him, waiting for him to expand upon this. But nothing came, just his soft gnawing at his food. Yeah? That’s all I was getting? I let it go and we finished our meals and returned to our respective rooms, bidding each other good night.
Tucked back in my room, I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. I put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, took my flashlight and a deep breath, and opened the closet door.
The climb wasn’t necessarily easier this time, but at least it was slightly familiar—I had braced myself for the ache and sting of my fingers as I clung to the planks and for that queasy feeling of descending into utter darkness. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I silently congratulated myself on a successful trip down.
The running could have gone better. I got winded a few minutes in—minutes—and had to walk about twenty feet, then picked up running again but at such a diminished speed that walking might have been faster. This is why my most rebellious act to date had been faking a sprained ankle when we were running the mile in gym class because I just couldn’t bear to come in last as everyone else watched and heckled me.
When I reached that storage room door, I caught my breath and then ran right back. Once my prescribed hour of exertion was up, I returned to the ladder, anxious to crawl into my bed and rest my spent muscles. If only there were some way that the climb up could be at the beginning of thi
s conditioning and the climb down at the end. But I pawed my way up the planks—resting midway, panting, holding on with every shred of my being and eventually making it to my closet and the relatively safe confines of my room.
***
The days began to pass quickly. Lance and I finished the mural—and it wasn’t half bad—and kept busy with a series of odd jobs: straightening up rooms here and there; unpacking the gold-edged china for the Capone restaurant; fluffing LH-insignia-embroidered pillows and folding towels and all sorts of other not so glamorous tasks. I hadn’t seen Lucian for days and had barely seen Aurelia more than a few minutes, when she would order me to do something.
Dante had been keeping vampire hours. He was up all afternoon and evening feeding the Vault and fine-tuning the gala menu with Etan, then sleeping much of the day. We really were two ships passing in the night—or more like the morning, when he would roll in post-club and I would be up early, heading to see Aurelia and get my marching orders. My nighttime sprinting had been wearing me out, but I stuck to it, reveling in the quiet victory of snipping a few seconds off my time, or waking up the morning after and feeling even a shade less in pain than I had after my previous training session.
On that Friday afternoon the day before the opening-night gala, we were all summoned to the library for a staff meeting, instructed to wear our new hotel-issued uniforms for a sort of dress rehearsal. We had been given seven each, so we could get through a week before doing laundry. I had tried mine on for the first time in my room an hour before the meeting. I slipped into the slim black dress I had seen on Celine weeks earlier and zipped up the side. It fit just fine, even if it wasn’t a bit like anything I’d ever worn. Dante came by to show off his uniformed look: he had a chef’s coat with his name stitched in, and his own hat too.
“You look totally hot. You clean up nice, girl!” He sprawled out on my bed, watching me try to figure out how to secure my hair in the back without making it look even worse than it did down.
“You don’t think it’s too short?” I asked, watching myself in the mirror and tugging on the hem of the dress, then checking his reflection for the verdict. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“Ugh. Please. It’s not short at all, grandma. Could you be more prudish please?”
“Sorry, geez, I was just asking.”
“When did your gams get so good anyway? Is that actual muscle tone?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe.”
“Check you out!”
“You’re not so bad yourself. Love the hat.”
“Thanks, I know. Sexy, right?” He mugged, making a face.
“Totally.” I laughed. I twisted my hair and wrapped an elastic around it, but it didn’t seem to want to stay in place. Aurelia had ordered me to wear it back in a chignon, but I had no idea how to accomplish that. It didn’t escape Dante’s notice.
“Okay, step aside and make room for someone who actually knows what he’s doing.” He got up and waved his hands for me to relinquish my elastic, bobby pins, and hairbrush. He pushed me into the desk chair, facing the mirror, and twisted and fluffed and tied back and pinned—and in no time, he had me looking exactly as I hoped Aurelia had had in mind.
“Voilà!” he said.
“Not bad,” I said, looking at my reflection.
“Hope you were taking notes. I’m not doing that for you every day.”
I stepped into the heels—also part of the uniform—black and strappy and at least four inches high. I had worn heels only a few times in my life, and never for very long periods of time. These pinched and rubbed at the back of my foot and smushed my toes together, actively injuring me with each step toward the mirror. Ow. But at the same time, now that I studied my reflection, this finished product, I had to admit it all conspired to be a polished look. I felt like a slightly more adult version of myself, someone more serious and accomplished. As Aurelia had said, uniforms really did change the way you felt about the work you were doing. I wanted to be even more perfect than ever now. I wanted to do the uniform proud.
Dante and I stopped by to get Lance, who answered the door buttoning his cuffs and without his tie. The men would be in black pants, button-down shirts, and insignia-bearing vests with red ties. He looked at us, sheepish, and held up the tie. “I’ve always had trouble with this.”
He looked more filled out in the black uniform, still long and lean but more solid than he had in his usual jeans and T-shirts. Or maybe I just hadn’t noticed how fit he was.
Dante stepped in to help, whipping the tie with sharp whooshes. “I don’t know what you people would do without me. Who’s gonna get you dressed in the morning? Not it!”
“Thanks,” Lance said quietly.
“I’ll be giving a tutorial in hair and tie origami later,” Dante added.
“Sign us up,” I said.
When we reached the library, the Outfit was already suited up and stretched out in a line side by side. I tried not to pay attention to how stunning the girls looked in the same ensemble I had on. They also all had their hair tied back—some in sleek ponytails, some in twists, some in buns—and the men had theirs slicked back like Lucian’s. Uniforms normally evened the playing field by stripping away armor and peacock plumage. But with these people, who would look unbelievable in anything, all I could do was give myself a tiny bit of credit for looking better in these clothes than I had expected.
Aurelia swanned in, Lucian beside her, and studied us all.
“Tomorrow at three in the afternoon, our home is going to open its doors,” she began slowly, thoughtfully, as though about to impart something vital and serious. “New rules will be put into place. You are no longer to be seen anywhere out of uniform, except in the Vault, where you are to be attired in a manner befitting a representative of the hotel after hours. To get there, kindly use the stairwell behind the gallery rather than the elevator. Use the freight elevator to get to your rooms. Other communal areas—the library, Parlor, Capone, and the gallery—are off-limits unless you’re on official business there. Meals can still be taken in the alcove of the Parlor kitchen, but not during peak hours. When it comes to interaction with the guests, do not speak unless spoken to but radiate an aura of general helpfulness, utmost professionalism, and effortlessness.” Lucian, leaning against one of the desks, looked forward. His eyes caught mine and I looked away. I took a deep breath.
“Each of you will get instructions on what your job will be at the gala. Many of you will merely be ambiance, decoration, the equivalent of background music, which in itself is an important role at an event like this.”
We all nodded in unison, standing firm and stiff. She stepped toward the door. “Until further notice . . .” She didn’t finish; she just let that fragment linger as she and Lucian disappeared, trailed by the Outfit.
The next morning, Aurelia dispatched me to the gallery to “supervise”—and by “supervise” she meant mill around just to make sure disaster didn’t strike as the newly framed photos were being hung. They looked even more stunning as a group—the whole even greater than the sum of its parts. Aurelia’s photo was, naturally, the biggest, roughly four feet wide by six feet tall and occupying a space dead center on the wall nearest the gallery entrance. The next grandest was Lucian’s, half the size of Aurelia’s but far more dramatic to my eyes: even now I felt that he was watching me. The photos of the Outfit circled these, in orbit around them. And on this galaxy’s outskirts: Lance, Dante, and me, tangential and tertiary to their core. Off to the side was a small printed placard that read “Photography by Haven Terra.” I drew closer to it, thinking my eyes had fooled me. But, no, there I was. That I hadn’t expected at all.
I left the gallery, everything perfectly in place, and stepped into the lobby. For a moment I felt truly part of it all—part of the hubbub and excitement that bubbled up, ready to burst forth tonight at this event, which would have to be something more electric than anything I’d ever witnessed. I could already feel an extra buzz
and current in the air. The lobby seemed to hum in anticipation of all these strangers descending, all these people who would flock in search of something special. And I had never seen the place looking more worthy of adoration. Flower arrangements of only the most exotic, wildly shaped, boldly hued blooms dotted every table and surface, along with candles already lit and flickering even though it was just after noon. The chandelier gleamed and sparkled. Swinging jazz music swirled all around.
I had done a lap around the lobby, admiring it on my way to find the freight elevator and make my trial run, taking that rickety ride down to the basement level, when I saw Lucian. He was suited up and sprucing up a flower arrangement at the front desk. Behind him the flat screen shuffled through the photos I had taken at the Vault. Every single person who stayed here would see them when they checked in, just as everyone who set foot in the gallery would see my work, and my name, there. I had left a mark. Lucian’s eyes found me and he smiled, beckoning me.
“Haven,” he greeted me as I got near. “Did you see the gallery?”
“I was just there. It’s amazing. I had no idea my name would be up there.”
“You deserved it.”
“Thanks.” I felt myself blush and tried to stop it by looking away, changing the subject. “So, it’s almost showtime.”
“I know, hard to believe. Don’t let her make you work too hard tonight. You should get to have fun too, you know.”
“Well, if you insist, then . . .”
He leaned over, fussing with the flowers again—there were black and white bulbous orchid-looking things and ones that looked like ruffly black roses. He picked out one, pushed one side of my hair behind my ear, and then tucked the flower there. The bloom was so full I could feel it tickle my cheek.
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