Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One

by Aimee Agresti

  “You did a lovely job on that mural after all,” Lucian spoke into my ear. I felt the ground shift ever so slightly, and for a moment I was convinced I might melt into it but I steadied myself. “You’ve captured the spitting image of hell. I’m surprised, and it takes a lot to surprise me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you might have a dark side.”

  I struggled to find the words and still felt his breath lingering. I wondered if I should turn to face him, but I couldn’t move. I just stared straight ahead at these pictures I’d already looked at for much too long. Please don’t let him see my marred photo, I thought.

  If there was anyone else in the room, any soul at all, I couldn’t feel it. All had been drained from this scene save for the two of us and the strains of the music piped in from the lobby—slow, suggestive and seductive, with weeping horns. My pulse sped up.

  “Well, thank you.” I pursed my lips for just a beat to stop them from quivering. “But I think I was out of my element. I might have had better luck with his Earthly Delights than that.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his lips move. “I’m sure you’d be very successful in all matters of earthly delights if given the opportunity.”

  He stepped in front of me and then forward, a slow step or two, backing me farther into the corner.

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Thank you? And likewise.” I was a little unsure of myself, which he seemed to read as coy—that was fine with me.

  He smiled. Lightheaded, I took another step back; my free hand groped for the wall behind my back and found it. I let my body be supported by it. I wished I could have stashed this drink somewhere—I seemed destined to spill it on myself. Lucian leaned one shoulder against the wall, nearly touching mine so that we made a right angle. I felt trapped, in a pleasant way. He rattled what little ice was left in his glass, watching it swish in the remaining liquid, which seemed to match the color of my eyes. With the tip of my index finger I touched the spot where my scar flamed beneath my dress, wishing for some way to cool it, wondering if the fabric had somehow irritated it even though it was the smoothest silk. My body must have been mistaking my nerves for fear. Lucian caught my hand in his.

  “Now, this is very nice.” He pulled my hand toward him for a closer look at the ring. The giant diamond rivaled his eyes in sparkle and splendor, but lost out to them.

  “I know. It’s Aurelia’s, of course. I feel like I should have my own security detail for all of this jewelry. It was very generous of her to let me wear her things.”

  “You wear it well,” he said, smoldering.

  “Thank you.” He let my hand down. It didn’t feel like it was attached to me anymore. I didn’t know where to put it. It returned to its previous spot behind my back, against the wall. “She’s been really wonderful to me tonight. She’s introduced me to everyone.”

  “I hear she intends for you to take on even more responsibility as we move forward.”

  “She mentioned something like that. I would love that,” I said, then decided to ask. “She introduced me to a gentleman tonight, in a tux. He was standing over there for a while—” I gestured toward the gallery entrance. “But I didn’t get his name. I wondered if—”

  “That’s just the Prince,” he cut in, a hint of annoyance curdling his milky voice. I briefly wondered if I got the luxury of Lucian’s attention now only because Aurelia was caught up with this other man—but truthfully, I didn’t care so much. I just wanted his eyes and his thoughts and his focus on me, any way I could get it. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted.

  “Just the Prince?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From where?”

  “Nowhere you’ve ever been. Not important. He’s just a friend,” he said, a little snide and cold for my taste. I was offended, but only for a moment. I shouldn’t have brought any of it up, that’s all. Why couldn’t I just savor these times with him and not sabotage them?

  “Well, it sounds like you have friends in high places.” I glanced away, fingers fidgeting.

  “Maybe so,” he said, smirking as he sipped his drink. “Or maybe low ones.” He sized me up. “You’re different than the girls I’m used to.” He said it with assurance, as a fact, a startling new discovery he’d just declared to be true. He was probably right. I was not a bit like the leggy glamazons of the Outfit. I wasn’t sure that I should consider this a compliment. “You’re sweet,” he said now, seeming to have read my mind. “I love that.”

  I couldn’t suppress my blushing or the soft smile that turned up the corners of my lips. I couldn’t keep my eyes from darting to his and then away. I didn’t say a thing. If I spoke it would only ruin it.

  “What’s it like to be you?” he asked, a touch of whimsy in his voice.

  “Me?”

  “What’s it like to be sweet and kind?”

  “I’m sure you know, you’re—”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “It’s not very exciting, I’m afraid,” I whispered playfully. “But I’m just wired this way, I guess.” I shrugged. “But I’m no saint.”

  “Really, because I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Tell me, though, do you think a person is predestined to be good or bad, or do you think someone could override that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it depends on the person and how badly they want to defeat it.”

  I could feel his eyes boring into me when I looked away, his focus unwavering. I couldn’t quite look at him with the same intensity without going a little weak.

  “You might be right,” he said. He permitted himself one long sweeping look at the photos, taking them all in as one. If he noticed mine, then he was a gentleman because he didn’t say anything at all about its imperfections.

  “You know, some Native American tribes thought the camera could steal your soul,” I said, just to get his eyes away from them. He looked toward me again. I felt a relief, and then a fluttering.

  “These turned out beautifully. I know you said it’s your subjects, but I have to disagree. Respectfully, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “See, I think each photographer brings something of herself, or himself, to each photo. There’s something of you reflected in these, whether you like it or not. You may indeed have to take some credit.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “Then thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We were silent for a moment and it occurred to me: “Is this all a way of telling me it’s time for me to get back to work?” I said. I caught sight of Lance, still talking to Raphaella. Or rather she was talking but he was staring at me with stern eyes and a furrowed brow. He didn’t even look away or change his expression when he saw that I noticed him. Lucian was talking though, and I pushed Lance out of my mind and line of vision.

  “What do you mean? Work?” Lucian asked.

  “Oh, just . . . I’m supposed to take photos in the Vault tonight.”

  “Ahhhh, is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, then.” He knocked back the last of his drink and placed his empty glass and my full one—brushing his fingers against mine as he did—on a passing tray. “What are we waiting for?”

  I tilted my head at the we, wondering if I’d heard right.

  “Hurry,” he breathed. “Before someone comes along and I get stuck here.”

  Hurry? Hurry, he said. Gladly.

  After I had grabbed the camera from the back office, Lucian led us down the staircase, wisely avoiding the long line that had formed at the elevator. As we walked down, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell, my feet almost didn’t hurt. There was no one else for whom I could have braved all those steps in those heels. He had let me go in front of him and was guiding me with a protective hand on the small of my back. I was hyperaware of him there, attached to me, even with just these light, featherwei
ght fingertips. We reached the door at the bottom and he pushed it open for me to step through. We could hear the music of the club now, beating fast as my heart.

  “Do you know why we call it the Vault?”

  I did actually. I’d done my reading. “Sure. When Capone lived here he was thought to have kept money and other treasures in a vault in the basement.”

  “You’re good,” he said. “You know they opened it up years ago and it turned out there was nothing there but empty bottles and a bunch of bullet holes.” The music got louder as we walked down an empty hallway, coming at the club from the opposite direction I was used to.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I know.”

  “So shouldn’t this place look like the inside of a bank vault or something?”

  “No.” He laughed. “Who wants to hang out there? It needs to feel like another world, like somewhere where dangerous things are locked away and you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.” Music rushed out at us now, swirling.

  “Ohhh. Well. Mission accomplished then.” A dangerous feeling washed over me, as though I would do anything to spend more time with him. The magnetic pull was almost too much.

  “The point is,” he said, his hand on my back again, leading me through as the gatekeepers opened that giant door for us on cue, “you never know what people have hidden away. It can be so much more or less than it seems on the surface.”

  We were in the tunnel now, pitch-black save for the occasional flashing light. There were people ahead of us in the club and some behind us waiting to get in, but for a blissful, heady moment, Lucian and I were alone. He stopped and looked at me again. I felt for the wall for support.

  “What do you have locked away, Haven Terra?” He leaned into me. Even in the near darkness, the blue lacing his gray eyes lit up.

  I opened my mouth to speak but it took a few seconds for sound to actually come out. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” I felt like he was speaking to me in a language I desperately wished to be fluent in but wasn’t.

  “Everyone’s hiding something. I know you are too.”

  “Oh, well, I mean . . .” What was he trying to say? Did he know something about that book of mine? He looked at me with fierce electricity, drinking me in, my whole life force spilling out into his piercing gray-blue pools. I wanted to say whatever the magic words might be to keep him looking at me this way.

  And then, everything stopped.

  The lights went out, complete blinding blackness enveloping us; the music hushed, quick and sharp. The shock of it all left the place encased in such pin-drop silence it made my ears tingle. Suddenly, his lips were on mine—urgent, warm, hitting me so fast, so firm, that I lost my breath. He tasted like peppermint. The camera, in its case, dropped from my hand to the ground and I didn’t care. One of his arms wound around my waist, squeezing me so tightly to him I gasped. His other hand shot up my neck gripping my hair. Everything went liquid. I melted into the wall behind me and into him. I wasn’t sure if my feet were still on the ground. I didn’t think they were—he was so tall, and he clutched me so close he lifted me up. He held me there in this perfect, wild, alive kiss. And somehow my lips knew what to do, like I’d been doing this all my life, having these mysterious sudden kisses in dark places. My hand, acting on its own, rose up finding his neck, and I pulled him closer to me, surprising myself. My skin, every single nerve, fluttered; my heart beat so loudly, throbbing inside my ears, I wondered if he could hear it too, as it galloped, unbridled.

  He kissed my neck once, hard, my pulse rising to meet his lips. And then, just as fast as he had enveloped me, he was gone—extricating himself from me so swiftly that I stumbled, no strength left, finding the wall and leaning back against it. The volume suddenly came up on the rest of the world. I heard voices in the club, asking each other what had happened to the lights and the music and the power. I could see the flickering of the fire wall out through the end of the tunnel. I imagined the ring of fire continued to flame too. I didn’t care to look more closely. Where had he gone? I was feeling greedy now. I wanted another kiss, an endless one, and I wanted the lights to never come back up. I just wanted to relive that again and again. Just thinking about it made my stomach flip and my head spin.

  Around me, footsteps tapped closer; people muttered and slapped against the wall feeling their way. Someone hit me in the arm as they walked by. “Sorry,” came a woman’s voice. I couldn’t move yet—even if I got trampled, I couldn’t move. People had begun to get restless. They wanted out and began to flow into the tunnel, smacking against one another and against the wall. Jostled, I took a couple steps and tripped over something. I ducked, feeling around, and found the camera bag. I picked it up, cradling it in my hands. Just then, the lights blazed on at full power. Collectively, everyone paused to adjust to the blinding light and then began to flee, flowing out of the club en masse. They all seemed to accept this as a signal that the party was over. I broke off from the crowd as soon as I could and stole away to that stairwell, walking up in my heels, which, now that I was on my own, had begun to terrorize my feet to such a degree, digging in so deep, that it felt like they had clawed themselves onto me and would need to be removed with pliers. But everything about this night was worth it.

  It dawned on me that I hadn’t taken a single picture. At this moment, I didn’t quite care. I knew I would probably feel differently tomorrow in the harsh light of morning, seated in Aurelia’s office trying to defend myself. But for the time being, it just didn’t rank as a concern. I was too blissed out, navigating all of this in a dreamy state I wanted to live in forever.

  As I slowly ascended, step by step, I replayed that scene in my mind on a loop over and over and over, only bringing myself back to the present as I neared the top of the steps, just before entering the lobby, to do a quick spot check. I could only imagine that, after all of that, I was something of a rumpled mess. I smoothed my dress, setting it in place where it had shifted when he grabbed me and held me so tight. My hair was now a loose nest, having come almost entirely out of its artfully secured style. Since I certainly didn’t know how to restore it myself, I just pulled out the pins and shook it out, letting it fall around my shoulders.

  I slipped into the gallery and found it empty—everyone must’ve flooded out of here, just as they had downstairs, when the lights went back on. The lobby was packed and the crowd all atwitter about what had happened. I returned the camera to the back room, locking it up in a drawer, then grabbed my evening bag, which I had stashed in the office. Since it was so peaceful in the gallery, I decided to stay a few minutes, catching my breath, collecting my thoughts, and trying to preserve this rapture that had swept me up so completely. I felt it would fade every minute away from him and that nothing would snuff it out more swiftly than a roomful of loud people.

  I wandered, beginning at the back of the gallery. That mural, which I hadn’t gotten a chance to look at yet tonight, had turned out so much better than had seemed imaginable. It looked more passionate, more expertly done than it had when Lance and I had finally retired our paintbrushes and declared it complete. There was such life—and, I suppose, death—in it. It didn’t seem possible that our contributions had fit so seamlessly with Calliope’s work. So I meandered through this space, enjoying my time alone with it, but as I did, my mind still flashed back to that interlude in the tunnel. Where had Lucian gone? And then I came upon that spot where he had leaned into me saying all those curious things and inviting himself downstairs with me. Had he known then that he would kiss me later?

  I realized I had been staring into the blank air for a while now, pleasantly dazed. I could see a hint of my reflection in the glass of Aurelia’s photo. I saw my features in the black dress of her picture, and from what I could tell my lipstick wasn’t so bad. Another of the night’s miracles. My vision readjusted to take in her image, bracing myself to be reminded of how much more beautiful she was than me. But something else caught my eye. There,
on her cheek, was a darkened blotch. What was it? It looked almost like a splatter of sauce from one of Dante and Etan’s precious canapés. I had been concerned when I heard they were going to allow food and drink in the gallery, but it wasn’t really my place to say anything, was it? I leaned in for a closer look, my finger poised to brush away the offending mark—and then I froze.

  It was worse than I imagined. This thing, this splotch, wasn’t something on the surface to be wiped away: it was actually on her face. Roughly the size of a quarter, it had a depth to it and a spectrum of red and yellow shadings; it was some sort of festering lesion. I had never seen this on her face in real life—I certainly would have noticed—and I hadn’t seen it on the picture either, but then again, I hadn’t bothered looking at her photo all that closely since every one of her shots had been so perfect. But the picture was so large. Had Aurelia even failed to see this blight? It was ugly. I don’t know how we all could have missed this. And now that I really studied it, the picture was far worse than I remembered. Her eyes were bloodshot and weighted with dark circles, with crow’s-feet poking out around the corners.

  Suddenly my picture didn’t seem so bad. I checked it again. The scars didn’t bother me so much now—maybe it had just been the element of surprise earlier. I had failed to notice that my skin had kind of a nice glow to it, as though light were shining through my pores. My expression was softer than I realized too. I looked comfortable. Not bad at all. Maybe this was just what it was like to have a little confidence; maybe this was all still that heady post-kiss afterglow.