Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One

by Aimee Agresti

  “Yes,” he said. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “I’ll meet you downstairs. . . . after . . .” I didn’t have to finish.

  “If I don’t see you in ten minutes, I’m coming after you. In the meantime, I’ll keep him away,” he said. “You’re sure you want to do this part alone?”

  “Yeah, just keep an eye on him.”

  “Good luck, Haven. You can do this.” I took one last look and thought Lucian might have spotted me. And I took off, walking fast, abandoning my drink on the table where a pair of junior-year girls from the dance squad were taking tickets outside the ballroom doors.

  “Hey!” they shouted at me in unison.

  I scurried down that grand staircase, slaloming around the glowing couples strolling up to the ballroom hand in hand, ready to have the night of their lives. I didn’t know any of them all that well, but I still hoped, as I ran by, that the night would end without them being drafted into this legion of enemies. I hoped, now that I thought about it, that I would see them again. That this night wouldn’t be it for me. But I had to banish thoughts like that as I continued on, marching in long, sure strides through the bustling lobby to Aurelia’s office.

  “Might as well start at the top,” Lance had advised. “Remember, you’re going to have to bait her, let her come after you. But when, when, you finish her off, the window will be open for you to be able to destroy the rest of the Outfit, hopefully before they get to you.” There was a lot of hope involved here—and hope can be a pretty powerful thing.

  33. You Have to Do This for Me

  Lance had been confident during our planning session that Aurelia would be in that lair of hers tonight because he figured she wouldn’t want to stray far from her portrait. That would serve as her gauge as to the success of the night: as soon as that photo changed back to its beautiful former state, she would know that I was dead. I took the Swiss army knife from my purse and tucked it into the slim pocket of my dress—it felt heavy there, laden with significance. As I breezed past the front desk and into that hallway, I braced myself and found my head filled with only one thought, one image: that painting, La Jeune Martyre. The girl in that painting had to have been brave and heroic and strong, despite the outcome. She had done something worthy of being immortalized. I had once been a kid on the verge of death left lying in a ditch somewhere but had survived that. Tonight I might end the night discarded and left for dead again, but I wasn’t going to let that happen without trying to do something gutsy and noble first.

  But I had to slow down. Even in the dim light, I could make out that imposing figure. Lance had anticipated something like this, and he had been right. Arms crossed, strong as stone, Beckett stood guarding the door to Aurelia’s office. His eyes zapped toward me. He didn’t say a word. I stopped in my tracks ten feet in front of him.

  “I’ve come to give Aurelia my answer,” I said to him, almost sweetly, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. “But I’m going to say no. And she won’t like that very much.” Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “You know, if you killed me before Lucian did, just think what it would do for your reputation.” I could see him weighing it; for several seconds he didn’t budge an inch. Then slowly he rocked side to side on his feet. “Catch me if you can.” I took a slow step backwards.

  In a flash, he pounced.

  I hurled my purse at him and ran, faster than I ever would’ve imagined I could in heels. Out the hallway, past the front desk, with him trailing me closer than I would’ve liked. I flew down the stairwell to the Vault, blasting past the duo guarding the door before they knew what hit them, right through the mouth of the club. Inside, it was already bustling and positively teeming with Outfit members. I sped straight through, weaving around the lively weekend crowd. I looked back a split second and seemed to have lost Beckett, but gained new pursuers. As I ran, the new recruits of the Outfit honed in on me, practically lighting up as I passed. One by one they began trailing me, a pack forming, winding and pushing through the crowd. I forced my legs faster, knocking over anyone in my way. I stumbled and tripped through that dark hallway behind the fire wall and spilled out into the tunnel. As soon as I neared that half-gutted room where I knew Lance would be waiting, I started yelling.

  “They’re all right behind me!” I turned the corner and, sure enough, there was Lance. He stood beside the photos, including the new ones we’d printed out and taped to sheets of poster board propped against the others, and held a gleaming switchblade for me to take. My entire body was slick with sweat.

  “Go time,” Lance declared.

  I lunged for the knife, prepared to start slashing, just as the angry herd set in. They were upon us now, sweeping into this room, possibly thirty of them hurtling toward us.

  Gripping the knife handle as firmly as possible in my sweaty palms, I began slicing in wide swaths. I did one of the group photos first, striking with sharp, long strokes and then smaller hatches, trying to cover everyone. Those people dropped to the ground, crackling and kindling. The rest swarmed us, Lance swinging at them, throwing punches and blocking them from me as best he could, trying to hold them off while I cut their photos to ribbons. There were more than I expected; some had been up manning the prom—Beckett must have rounded them up when I thought I’d lost him chasing me. Lance grabbed one of the rotting wooden boards he’d set aside in advance, swinging wildly at our attackers, trying to mow them all down. He smacked them so hard, a sharp crack snapped the air and the wood, and they went flying.

  Then, like a bull loose from his pen, Beckett came charging from the back of the group. He pummeled Lance, taking him down with a thud that echoed in my chest. He was stronger than the rest of the Outfit combined, teeth gritted, eyes burning with rage. The stakes were higher for him: he fought for status, for the chance to become the new Lucian. I lost focus for a millisecond and an Outfit woman—Michelle, it was Dr. Michelle—knocked me to the ground. “What happened to First do no harm?” I shouted at her, battling back. But she had backup; so many others tugging at my hair and clawing at my dress and arms, I flailed wildly to shake them off.

  Kicking, crawling, I sliced and sliced, stabbing at the photos as fast as I could, even as these men and women, the ones I’d so admired at one time, tried to rip me apart. They came at me from every side, such an onslaught that I couldn’t get off the ground and was left hacking away madly at the photos, throwing my arm out like a pickax, stabbing and then using the leverage to drag myself along the floor toward my next target. Every time Beckett got ahold of me—yanking my leg so hard I thought he might pull it out of its socket, twisting my arm behind my back so that I was in danger of slicing myself with the knife—Lance was on him in the blink of an eye, throwing himself at Beckett or peeling the brute off me with such force I wouldn’t have believed he had it in him if I hadn’t seen it.

  And slowly, through it all, the numbers diminished. One by one, the Outfit members dropped around us both, morphing into their ugly images from the photos and then charring and turning to ash, until it was just Beckett. His photo required so much more than the others. I had already delivered a couple sharp slashes to the heart but had to keep at it, again and again and again, until finally he doubled over and fell to the ground.

  Catching our breath, Lance and I lay beat up and bruised, our faces flat against the warm, grimy floor. Beckett slowly deteriorated in the space between us until, with no warning, his body sparked and flared into a crackling fireball. Lance and I, still on the ground, jerked, the flame sizzling and licking at us as we tried to scramble away, singeing us both on the leg. Even as his decaying figure burned, he spoke to us. “Don’t be too impressed with yourselves,” he struggled, in a gravelly tone. “You won’t last the night.” Then the charring began, taking over every inch of his skin, slow as could be. It seemed that the higher their station within the hierarchy of the underworld, the longer they burned. Lance and I didn’t speak; we just lay there, as Beckett flamed out. I imagined Lance felt as achy and bruised as I did
. I couldn’t begin to find it in me to lift myself up.

  But I felt it, even as Beckett’s corpse sparked in death and defeat—I felt the change in the air, a tingle at the back of my neck that told me I had to move. I could feel him there. I wondered if Lance could feel him too. I wondered if Lance had more strength than I did right now. Because I really couldn’t imagine having to take on another murderous soul and one that would be even more deadly. That I was still alive felt unbelievable to me, something that deserved a few minutes of celebration, and of healing, before I had to be thrust back into this battle. But his footsteps grew closer. Get up, Haven, you have to get up, I told myself. I saw those shoes first. One of them kicked, hard and sharp, against Beckett’s burning form, not even flinching when the flame caught onto his sole, just stomping it out and kicking again, turning the hissing Beckett over.

  “You . . .” Beckett’s wheezing voice stung the air.

  “Me,” the voice replied, reaching down to the sizzling figure to extract a jingling key ring from what remained of Beckett’s jacket. I knew those keys, I knew where at least one of them led: that door. I had to move. Now. I had to move. Slowly, I pulled myself up on my hands and knees, head still bowed. I was too late.

  Lucian’s hand grabbed my upper arm, fast and firm, yanking me to my feet. I screamed. “Where’s my photo?” he asked, emotionless, cold. “I know you didn’t destroy it.”

  I couldn’t find my voice. From the corner of my eye I saw Lance roll onto his side. He was trying to get up, trying to help me.

  Lucian shook my arm. “Why?!” he yelled at me. “Don’t you know how much easier that would’ve been?”

  “It’s over there,” I choked out, winded, jerking my head to the back corner of the room. I had asked Lance to pull it out from the rest, keeping it separate, just in case. He stomped over there now, yanking me along with him. On the way, he bent down to swipe something gleaming from the ground—the knife. He grabbed the photo in its frame and with me in one hand, and the picture, keys, and knife clutched in the other, he trudged over in the direction I had feared: back toward that dreaded door that felt like fire and dropped into the underworld. As we inched closer to that entryway, my legs scrambled to slow our pace, but were too weak to do much good.

  “Answer me!” he barked at me again, dragging me along as I stumbled. “Why didn’t you do away with me like the others?”

  “I just . . . I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. I hoped—”

  “I don’t know where you get this hope, with all that’s gone on here,” he spat, stopping before the door. I could feel the heat emanating from behind it. He dropped the photo on the ground and fumbled with the keys, almost dropping them too, which showed me that he was nervous at least. “You have one last chance,” he said, key engaging in the lock, clicking. With one hand, he flung open the guard bar and tugged open that mammoth metal door. A rush of heat flew out, blowing us back. It felt as if it took all my skin with it, and I had to close my eyes. When I opened them again, all I could see below was a great black abyss, with wild, hungry flames churning at the very bottom. We both stood only inches from the drop-off. I felt woozy, like I might just keel over into it and be done with. I tried to steady my feet, rooting them, and pushed back, leaning away from it. I would save my energy and try to spring it all on him at once, lunging away from this. I couldn’t go down there.

  He jammed the cool handle of the knife into my palm and dropped to his knees, taking me with him, so we were level with his photo. It was dangerously close to falling in, the frame edging out an inch or two into the open doorway. “Will you just do it?” he shouted over the roar, shaking me. I couldn’t even look at him. I focused instead on his picture. Up until right now, as I kneeled at the gateway to hell, I had still held out hope that Lucian would defy Aurelia. His picture had been changing back on its own. It was nearly perfect now, a sure sign that his soul was healing. But if he was capable of throwing me into this hellfire, then my instincts clearly hadn’t been anywhere near as solid as I’d thought. He barked at me again: “Will you just drive that knife into my picture? . . . Please? Will you?”

  And this time, I could feel the glimmer of desperation behind his words and that’s why I said, softly, fighting back tears: “No.”

  His grip loosened. He bowed his head. Somewhere behind us, I heard Lance grunt as he made it onto his feet.

  Lucian rose too, but on heavy legs. It seemed that he was crumbling from within. “Then that’s it,” he said, his tone suddenly wistful, fragile even. “That’s it. You have to throw me in.”

  Lance charged, a rush of footsteps, but then stopped dead in his tracks, his shoes squeaking to a halt, as though wondering if he’d heard right. I wondered myself. My eyes flicked up at Lucian’s and I stood up, letting the knife drop.

  “What?” I managed.

  “You have to do this for me.” He turned toward Lance, still at a distance, and tossed the key ring to him. “One will lock this place up but the other one gets you into Alcatraz. Etan’s circling Dante in the ballroom,” he explained. “I know he’s going to pounce. He’ll probably take him down there and then there won’t be much time.”

  Lance nodded at this, thinking, then asked, “But Haven got Etan’s photo; it’s over here.” He pointed toward the shredded pieces, scattered all around.

  “It’s going to take a while to go into effect since he wasn’t physically down here. It’s the same way with the others who are still upstairs. So, unfortunately, he’ll have time to do whatever he’s planning to do to Dante. But you can slow him down.”

  “Got it,” Lance said in a serious tone, letting his next challenge sink in.

  After a pause, Lucian spoke to me again, delicately, “And so I need you to do this for me now.” I searched his eyes. He went on. “As soon as Aurelia finds out I went against her orders, she’ll destroy me herself. I can’t let that happen. I have to go back by your hand. If one of them gets to me then there will be no hope of my coming back. I need to make it look like we fought, like I tried . . .”

  I looked at Lance, hoping he might have a better idea, but he shook his head in sincere apology. We had been over this. I was the only one with the full power to banish any of them.

  “This is what you want?” I asked, unsteady.

  “She’ll be out for my blood and if she takes me it’s a far greater offense. It means she had to because I betrayed her, I betrayed them all. Then I’m banished to the underworld for eternity. But if it’s you then it’s different—then I do my time down there, my punishment for failing in this assignment, but there’s always a chance I can return here to recruit again, where there’s more freedom and it’s possible to one day . . . escape.” He looked like he wasn’t sure he even believed this could happen but was trying to convince us both. “It’s not easy but it’s possible. If I ever do get back here and I find the courage to run away from this darkness, will you help me, Haven? Will you help me fight them all then? Will you help me try to change then and be like you? To be good instead?”

  I felt tears rising again but I battled them back. I couldn’t afford to break down now, I still had too much ahead of me tonight. “Anytime.” It came out as a whisper. But I meant it. If I ever had the power to assist in that fight, I would do it. He wasn’t like the others.

  “Always be careful, Haven. Be strong . . . and be you.”

  I nodded.

  “Take care of her,” Lucian called over to Lance, who I could tell wasn’t going to leave until Lucian was gone.

  Lance looked at me and then said to him, “To know her is to know she can take care of herself.”

  Lucian smiled. “That’s true.”

  “But she and I will look out for each other,” Lance amended.

  “Fair enough,” Lucian agreed. He inched closer to the edge and looked at me expectantly. “Please, Haven. Now.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but realized I had no words. There was too much I wanted to say. And none of it that I could get
out free of tears. “Goodbye,” I offered, in a broken voice. “ . . . for now.” I placed my trembling hand on his heart and held it there, unable to push even the slightest bit into the roaring fire beneath. He grabbed my wrist, just below that cuff, and raised my hand up to his lips, kissing my palm, then set it back against his chest. With no warning, and little if any strength from me, he dove into the pit.

  A split second before his descent, his foot kicked out in one quick motion, snagging the edge of that photo and catching it just enough to send it into the flames with him. As I watched his free fall, it seemed as though it happened in slow motion, the way a feather takes forever to finally reach the ground. He kept his eyes locked on me until, at last, in a flash, he disappeared into the fire so far below.

  I felt the tears start to well up again. I didn’t know if that had been the right thing; I didn’t know what was right anymore. But if he ever did come back, in search of an escape from that afterlife, I would help him. I had wanted to help him now, but he just wasn’t ready for me.

  Lance grabbed my arm, squeezing it, like he was pumping the life back into me, reminding me I couldn’t allow myself to mourn any of this right now. He pulled me back from that precipice and swung the door shut, securing the bar and locking it tight. All the while, I just stood there so very still.

  “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now,” he said gently, “but you did good.” I nodded. “There’s more to do though. You still have your knife?” he asked, attempting to nudge us back to the pressing business at hand. I couldn’t speak. I could only nod again. Slowly, I felt inside the pocket of my dress—it was still there. He folded his knife up. “Good luck, Haven. You can do this.”

  We went our separate ways; we weren’t finished yet. I looked at that great door once more before leaving, and then, shaking out my head, my arms and legs, shaking it all off, I did my very best to push Lucian to the back of my mind.