Ignite (26 page)

They hear me as I come around the tree and I smile at them. The two girls wave happily, and I rush past them, getting ready to run the rest of the way down the path, but the man calls out to me.

“Hey, are you all right?” he asks.

I stop and turn around to look at him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just camping. Enjoying the weather and all.” I hold out one of my arms and gesture around to the vibrant-colored leaves. Hoping that will be the end of our conversation, I spin on my heel and continue on.

He calls out again. “You sure? You’re awfully young to be out here by yourself. Is there anyone else with you? Are you lost, maybe?”

I shift my backpack between my shoulders and look back at them. “I’m older than you think. I am meeting someone though, so I have to go…”

“Well, if you’re sure.” He watches me carefully, unconvinced.

The older of the two small girls steps forward and holds out the plastic container that is clutched between her tiny, tan hands. “Wanna slice?”

I consider the apples for a moment before shaking my head. “That’s okay. I had an apple earlier.”

The girl giggles. “I hate apples.”

“Me too,” I confess, smiling.

She laughs again, and I turn around, walking away from the three. I distantly hear the older man tell the girls to roll up their socks to protect themselves from ticks. When I’m convinced they won’t be able to see me anymore, I break out in a sprint again. Unfortunately, it’s too sunny today and too crowded in the woods for me to fly.

Chapter 22

It takes me the majority of the morning to make it out of the mountains and into the nearest city.

I marvel at the amount of people mulling about on the sidewalks, rushing from store to store, into waiting cabs and parked cars. It’s amazing that a city this busy can rest so closely to someplace as peaceful as the mountains. I wonder how many of them have ever even been into the woods before, let alone seen more grass than the narrow strips of green that make up the sad, tiny parks that are wedged between towering office buildings.

As I walk deeper into the heart of the city, I remember that Azael used to call cities like this concrete canyons. There is no phrase better to describe the way the massive steel, concrete, and glass buildings rise out of the sidewalks and stretch up towards the sky. It’s beautiful in a very cold, manmade way. This is a different kind of mountain range but the buildings seem equally as tall and gray as the natural ones that are just miles away.

These buildings line both sides of the pothole-riddled, narrow street that is congested with traffic. Cars honk their horns impatiently at each other and at passing pedestrians that weave between the stopped traffic. A few blocks from where I am, I see the large, lit awning of a hotel.

Finally, some place decent to sleep.

Azael and I were stockpiling money over the last few months from people we conned and pockets we picked. I have a few fat wads of cash at the bottom of my bag that should let me stay in a decent room for a couple of weeks, but I don’t think I’ll need to stay here that long. I’m hoping Michael will be back in a few days.

I push through the glass and gold revolving doors and walk up to the front desk. A woman with dark red hair twisted up into a neat bun paces behind the desk with a small headset pressed into her ear. I lean forward and rest my arms on the tall, marble counter. She lifts one finger to me, asking me to wait.

“I understand, sir. I’ll send maintenance up right away. Yes, sir. Well, the fans cannot hold anything over a couple of pounds, which is why it fell when you… Okay, of course. Our apologies. We will send a complimentary breakfast to you tomorrow morning. Of course. Yes, sir. Thank you for staying at The Aria. Let us know if there is anything else we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”

She presses a finger up to her ear, pulls the microphone away from her mouth, and smiles at me tightly.

“Welcome to The Aria. My name is Nicole,” she says, pointing to her name tag, as if proving to me that what she’s saying is true. Sure enough, in thick, black marker, her name is scribbled across the golden tag that is pinned to her shirt. I raise my eyebrows and nod. Satisfied, she drops her hand, but not her fake smile. “How can I help you today?”

“I need to book a room.”

She looks down at the glowing screen of her computer. “Sure. How many beds?”

“One.”

She types, her fingers punching the letters of her keyboard with a loud clack. “King or queen?”

“King.” I excitedly imagine sinking into the soft foam of an expensive mattress. After weeks of roughing it, I’m ready for a real bed. I’m sure Azael and Lilith are living it up as they cross the globe, infecting more Lilim. Why shouldn’t I?

“Perfect.” She hits more keys, nodding. “How long will you be staying with us?”

“Uh, can I book it for the week?” That should be more than enough time. Michael could be back any day now.

“The week or the week plus the weekend? Our weekend rates are double.”

I pull my backpack around and stick my hand deep into one of the pockets, feeling the cash. “Just the week, thanks.”

“Of course. No problem.” She prints off a small receipt and holds it out to me, circling the cost with a red ballpoint pen. “And how will you be paying today?”

I bring out the stack of cash and place it on the counter. Her eyes widen. “Cash,” I answer. “This should cover it.”

She hesitates a moment and her eyes rake over my tangled hair and dirty clothes, like she’s seeing me for the first time. She purses her lips. “How old are you?”

I reach into my backpack again and pull out another thinner stack of cash, sliding it across the counter to her. “Old enough.”

She reaches out and picks up the money, flipping through the green bills with excitement. The paper whispers together, tempting her further. With a look over her shoulder, she pockets it, and returns to the computer.

“Of course, my mistake. You look old enough to me.” She doesn’t look at me when she says this. Instead, she fans out the rest of the money, her eyes scanning the bills quickly before she closes it again, tapping the stack on the counter to make them line up. “Great. Everything seems to be in order.” She reaches down, picks up a gold and red plastic card from behind the computer, and slides it back across the counter towards me. “Top floor. Enjoy your stay at The Aria. Let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”

I grab the card from her fingers, waving it once in the air in a small, sarcastic salute. “Sure thing.”

My boots click loudly on the gold-colored marble floor as I make my way over to the bank of elevators that ping periodically, their shiny doors sighing open and closed. I hit one of the buttons between two elevators, it lights up, and I step back and wait.

The doors open with a chime and a group of people surge out, some clutching suite cases and others bundled in large downey coats. I press myself back against the wall and wait for all of them to stream past me before I go into the mirrored elevator and press the button for the top floor.

A generic song plays over the speakers of the elevator as it smoothly ascends. No one joins me in the elevator as I go higher and higher so I lean back against one of the walls and watch myself, reflected on every surface of the small space.

My face is pale, but relatively clean, and I have dark circles bruised under my deep purple eyes that flick anxiously from one image of myself to another. My hair is a mess of black and blue knots, and I brush my fingers through the tangles, trying to tame it.

Finally, the doors slide open and reveal a small corridor with tall, teal walls and wide, hardwood planks. I glance at the number on my card. 13. I lean out of the elevator and look up and down the hallway. Rooms one through six are to the left, and seven through thirteen line down the right side.

I step out of the elevator just as the doors begin to slide closed, clutching my room key in my hands. I pivot on my heel and walk down the empty hallway, dark doors passing by on one side as bright windows blur past me on the other side. A few rooms have a crack of light peeking out from the bottom of their doors while others appear to be empty. Even though the doors are thick and soundproofed, I can still hear the muffled sounds of TVs, showers, and conversations through the walls.

Room 13 is at the end of the long hallway, facing the length of the corridor instead of the windows that look out and over the busy streets of the city like the other rooms do. I step up to the mahogany door and slide my keycard into the slot. A small green light turns on, and the door clicks loudly, opening up for me.

I go into the room, squeezing through the door into the dark room, and grab the “Do Not Disturb” sign. I hang the plastic sign on the handle and close the door behind me, sliding the chain through the door and locking the deadbolt for good measure before I go farther into the room. There is a panel of light switches next to the door and I flick on a few, bathing the room in a warm, buttery light.

When I turn away from the door, I’m nearly knocked off my feet by the luxuriousness of the room. I’m not accustomed to such fine items and I’m worried that if I touch something I’ll break it. There is a small bar with several crystal champagne glasses turned upside down on the black marbled top. The walls are a deep gray and the floor is covered with a soft, feathery white rug. In front of me is a large bed with a black cushioned headboard adorned with dozens of crisp, plump pillows and a fluffy white comforter. Vintage-looking wooden nightstands sit on either side of the bed with silver wall lights shining down on them.

Three tall windows line either side of the room. The windows on the left show the same view as the ones in the hallway—the street below, bustling with people flitting from one place to another. The windows on the right side, however, offer a picturesque view of the distant mountains. They sit like shadowed giants on the horizon, guarding the city as the sun slowly sets behind them.

I walk over and look out one of the large windows, leaning against the frame. My room sits above the other tall buildings of the city, and I’m glad I have this unobstructed view of the mountains. Without a reminder that there are still places on this Earth that aren’t crowded with people and paved over, I would go crazy.

I stare out at the mountains, trying to memorize the rocky silhouette and store the memory away for later. I’ll keep this image ingrained in my mind the same way I’ve kept Michael’s secret pond and hidden cave with me. I need these reminders of the beauty of Earth, of the life. This world is not worthless. There are things worth saving here, regardless of what Azael thinks.

With great difficulty, I remove myself from the window, walk over to the doors of a mirrored closet, and toss my dirty backpack inside. Before I touch anything else, I desperately need to shower. I don’t want to leave dirt on the pristine bed or track more mud over the white carpet.

I make my way back towards the front of the room and stop at a tall door that is set into the wall midway through the room. I slide the door open and step inside the bathroom, pulling the door closed so I can trap the steam of my shower in with me.

Glittering black granite makes up the majority of the bathroom—the vanity, the floor, and even the lower half of the walls. Two clear, large bowls sit on top of the vanity with ornate golden faucets fixed above them. A huge rectangular mirror is also framed in gold above the vanity and reflects the large shower and bathtub on the other side of the room.

A giant glass door opens into the shower, which is tiled in smaller glittering black squares. The shower head is flat and square, hanging in the center of the shower. When I reach in to turn it on, cool water falls out of the head like a waterfall. The water slaps on the floor as it warms up, steaming the glass of the door.

I take off my boots and strip off my dirt-covered clothes, tossing them in a pile in the corner of the bathroom. After the glass door is almost completely fogged over with steam, I step into the shower and let the water slip over my head and down my shoulders, washing away the thin layer of dirt that seems to cling to my skin. I tip my head back and close my eyes, letting the hot water hit my face.

The complimentary hotel shampoo and soap smells like lavender and lathers soothingly in my hair and over my body. I pull together some of the bubbles in my hands and blow them across the shower, laughing to myself. It’s amazing what a decent shower can do to my mood.

After I lazily rinse the foam off of me, I cut off the warm water, reach through the shower door, and grab a heavy white bathrobe. I wrap myself in the robe, wring out my hair, and step out of the shower and onto the cold, slippery tiles.

The mirror has completely fogged over during my shower, and I swipe my hand across it, clearing off a small circle so I can see myself. Wide, violet eyes stare back at me, surprised, and my cheeks are red from the hot water, but my skin looks brighter now that it isn’t coated in dust and dirt.

I roll up the sleeve of my robe and examine the scars I showed Michael the other day. Thin, delicate, and pale scars lace up my arm and onto my shoulder, wrapping around the back of my neck at the nape of my hair. These scars are so familiar I can almost remember where each one came from.

The thin scars came from whips, sharp, golden, and dipped in holy water. They burned my skin, tied me down, and nearly bled me out. There are other scars too, thick and jagged. One at the crook of my elbow I remember receiving from the serrated tip of an arrow; another that slashes across my wrist is from the hot blade of a dagger.