Illuminate (13 page)

“Hi . . . hi,” I stammered, unable to hide my surprise.

“Sorry to interrupt.” He stepped farther inside. “But I think—no, I know—I owe you an apology.” He kneeled at my feet. His musk and cedar scent whirled around me.

“Oh? I don’t know what you mean.” I tried to play it cool.

“Last night . . .” He paused, serious. “I’m afraid I had some business to take care of and it just dragged on. So I’m sorry.” His gray eyes pulled me in, grabbing hold and refusing to let go.

“Oh, no big deal.” I shrugged.

“Well, I believe I owe you.”

I didn’t see any reason to dispute this. “I’m not one to go challenging anybody’s beliefs.”

He smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.” His eyes wandered to my desk, finding the stack of photos I’d already printed out. He stood back up, reached over me, and grabbed them.

“I’m not finished yet.” I swatted to try to reclaim the stack but he just held them farther away.

“Have you gotten to mine yet? Don’t I get approval rights?”

“I was under the impression I had complete creative control.” I said it just jokingly enough.

“Is that right? Well, we’ll just have to see.” He leaned up against the desk, his body toward me. Dante’s picture was on top. He held it up and examined it. “Nice.”

“Thanks.” I was embarrassed. And it was about to get worse: his picture was next in the stack.

“Here we go.” He held it close, hand on his chin. I’m sure he was surprised I’d even taken a shot of him walking toward me. “Now, the dilemma,” he started. My face fell. “How do I compliment the photographer without sounding horrifically vain?”

“I think you just did.” I smiled and looked away involuntarily. “I’m glad you like it.”

He flipped through the rest of the stack, one by one, looking at each shot of the Outfit and then placing it on the table. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”

“It’s all an illusion. I just choose really good subjects who do all the real work.”

Lucian sat a few feet away and yet I could feel his breath. “Well, your strategy is obviously working. Either that or, you know, you’re actually talented or something.”

“Thanks, yeah, tough call.” I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with compliments, so it seemed easiest to bat at them, to volley. He was watching me, studying my face—though hopefully not that awful scratch. I kept talking as a distraction, if nothing else. “I kind of like how people transform when I look at them through that lens, or later when I see a picture I’ve taken and it captures something more than the surface of this person.”

“So you have x-ray vision then? I knew there was something about you.”

I shook my head, embarrassed. “No, but I just mean—” I picked up the shot of Dante on the table and dissected it with my eyes. “I feel like sometimes you can see someone’s soul in a photo. It seeps out if you catch them unguarded for just a second.”

Lucian took his from the pile and held it up. “Did you get mine?”

I looked from the photo to the real flawless honey-skinned face, and back again. “I’m not sure yet.” It was the truth. I didn’t know anything about him yet, but I wanted to know everything. I wanted to spend every minute with him. I wanted him to feel the same way about me. And I wanted to feel this pulsing in my veins forever.

I see.” He nodded, thinking. “Then that’s it. I think it’s going to have to be dinner now.”

“Dinner?”

“I just don’t see any way around it. Friday?” He gave me that look, the one I was getting so addicted to.

“Sure.” I could barely hear myself over my beating heart.

“Friday, then.” He rose to his feet.

“Friday,” I repeated, though it still wasn’t fully sinking in. He smiled.

“And be careful, would you?” He leaned in and his warm lips found that injured spot on my cheek. I felt the heat of his kiss on my skin even after he had pulled away and slipped out the door.

Shockingly, I worked with a new efficiency after my surprise visitor. It may have been the lingering effects of the adrenaline rush of having him near. I flew through my retouches on Lance’s photo, and chose my own photo, settling on the one I’d snapped just as Lucian had interrupted me that day. With a little Photoshop work, my scars, which had edged out from my tank top, were gone.

It wasn’t until I was back on the basement level that it occurred to me that I didn’t want to be in my room. I changed course, knocking next door. Lance opened up.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Hi. Just thought I’d see if Dante was back yet.” My voice had a breathy tremble to it.

“’Fraid not,” he said. “I think they’ve got him working pretty hard today.” A book lay upside down and open on his bed, a black-and-white postcard of old-time Chicago beside it.

“Yeah.” I was running out of things to say but I couldn’t bear to leave and face that strange book of mine. “Hey, do you want to, like, hang out? I mean, I was just going to read; you could bring your book; it’ll be like study hall . . . or whatever.” I sounded weird, even for me, but I couldn’t quite tell him that I was scared to be alone in my room.

“Sure,” he said. “Your room is nicer than ours. Probably neater too.” He kept the door propped open with his leg and reached back to the bed to grab his book. “I drastically bring down the neat quotient of our room.”

“Well, I’m kind of messy too, so you’ll feel at home,” I said unlocking my door, then pausing. “And I didn’t even make my bed today. That’s awful. Sorry.”

“I haven’t made my bed in years.”

“Well, even so—” I flung the covers back up, tucking them into the mattress, and fluffed the comforter and pillows. Lance scanned the room, probably comparing it to his own.

“You know what we need at this place?” he asked.

“Windows.”

“Yeah. And a TV.”

“No kidding.”

“It’s like we’re on a reality show where we never get to watch TV because that would be so boring for everyone else to watch.”

I assessed my housekeeping skills. “Better,” I said to the newly made bed. I picked up the crumpled scrubs I’d thrown off getting dressed this morning and folded them, sticking them in the top drawer. It occurred to me I probably didn’t want that book of mine lying out in the open, but a quick scan showed, oddly, it was nowhere to be found.

“Question: where did Capone work when he was in prison?” Lance asked.

“I know this—he did the laundry.”

“Correct,” he said. “Question: where are we supposed to do our laundry?”

“There I’m stumped. I know it’s down here somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s all I know. We’ll have to go looking for it.”

“Sounds good.” I slipped off my shoes and sat down, curling up my legs. He did the same on the corner of the bed. Neither of us spoke for a while; we read quietly and that was just fine. It was just a relief to have him sitting there with me. After about an hour of this, two spirited knocks banged at the door.

“Room service!” Dante’s voice rang out. Lance reached over and opened the door. A white-tablecloth-covered cart carrying silver-dome-topped plates and wineglasses filled with water wheeled into the room, Dante grinning behind it.

He totally doesn’t want to like you and doesn’t know why he does, but he maybe sort of does,” Dante offered as an analysis. Unable to hold back, I had just shared my Lucian encounter in painstaking detail. “No offense. I think he’s falling for your mind, you know?”

“What every girl wants to hear,” I joked back.

“I don’t get the appeal,” Lance said, shrugging. Girl talk wasn’t quite his thing. When I thought about it, I couldn’t believe I was talking about things like crushes with this guy I never really knew from my AP Euro class.

Dante bounced in his seat like a little kid. “Can I talk about me?” he asked, raising his eyebrows up/down, up/down. It had to be something good.

“As if you need to ask,” I said.

“So, my boss—”

“Etan—” I drew it out, anxious to hear.

“Good guy?” Lance asked.

“Superhot guy!” Dante gushed.

“I totally knew he would be your type.” I poked him with my fork. “I mean, he’s everybody’s type, but especially yours. You like mystery.”

“So true.”

“And muscles,” I added.

“Indeed. Speaking of—” Dante checked his watch. “Oooh, gotta get going. We’re testing out some eats at the Vault tonight. Etan has all these ideas to try. He’s a visionary.”

“Seriously, you’re still on call?” I asked. He began stacking the plates on top of the cart.

“I think I’m going to be working as much overtime as possible, if you get what I’m sayin’.” He winked. We all said our good nights, Dante kindly promising to keep an eye out for Raphaella for Lance and Lucian for me.

After Lance went back to his room, I changed into my scrubs and got ready for bed. I had grand plans that I might sleep a few hours without a nightmare. But as I tucked myself in, I started to wonder: where was that book anyway? It seemed somehow worse
not
knowing where it was. I pried my weary bones out of bed and began searching everywhere, even places I knew with certainty I hadn’t left it. I checked inside the bureau, the desk drawer, the night table, my backpack, the hamper, and even, absurdly, the shower. Nothing. I collapsed back onto the bed and then looked straight ahead: the closet.

I pulled the cord for the overhead light. The string came off in my hands—great—not that I really needed it. The narrow space was nearly empty. I tossed the duffel bags out, and there it was on the floor: the black leather-bound book. I grabbed it and stuffed the duffel bags back into the corner.

Ouch.

My hand scraped against something hard and metal. I set the book down and patted the worn, nubby carpet. Flat, flat, flat—and then my palm hit it again, this thing. It was a metal seam, a hinge more than a foot long and raised up only a few centimeters high. I traced it to where it ended and felt around. Running perpendicular to it was the slimmest of gaps, no thicker than a piece of cardboard. I picked at it and managed to get a nail under it, tugging. With a squeaky creak, the panel lifted up like a jaw. It was large enough for a person to fit through it. I didn’t want to open it the whole way, I couldn’t see down there anyway, and without the overhead light I couldn’t begin to see how far it went.

I had had quite enough. I sealed it back up, put my duffel bags on top of it, closed the closet door, and backed away. I didn’t like this at all. I wedged the desk chair under the doorknob. Primitive, yes, but this gave me at least some peace of mind.

But my peace of mind disappeared when I opened that book again.

There was more writing. Another full page. I took a deep breath and began to read.

I trust you have found the pathway. You will learn that it will do no good to cover things over and pretend they aren‘t there, just as this doesn’t work for the markings on your body. (You call them scars, but that is only because you don‘t yet know the distinction that comes with them.)

You will learn to break rules: your life depends on it. You will learn the art of trespassing, finding your way into places others don‘t wish for you to find. You will learn inner strength—to a degree far greater than you have ever known—and physical strength. None of this will be easy; all of it will be necessary.

You are in training now. And you shall answer first and foremost to me, to these words. You will save your questions about where these directives are coming from. You will receive answers only when it is appropriate for you to receive them. You will see that your purpose here is greater than you could have imagined. Trust in these words, trust in yourself, and you will not falter.

I stopped myself for a moment.
Trust
was a difficult word to stomach, a manipulative word. This book, which seemed to want to exert so much authority over me, had introduced itself by telling me my life was in danger and to keep quiet—that was kind of a lot. We were on shaky ground, me and this book. How could I be sure of its intentions? How did I know it wasn’t going to lead me straight into danger? The more I thought about it, the angrier it made me. The book had trapped me. I read on:

Naturally, you want to doubt this. Yours is an analytical mind. You wonder why you should follow these words. Take heart, winged one—

What was that supposed to mean?

There is so much you don‘t know, that you need to discover for yourself. There is considerable interpretation to be drawn from every thought in this book. Remember this much: never count yourself out, no matter what you are told.

So it had accounted for my skepticism, but it answered riddles with more riddles. It would have to do better than that. It would have to prove itself to me. But still, there was more:

Your assignments for tomorrow: In the morning, you must forgo any engagements and instead venture out to amass emergency supplies. These items may one day save your life. Think of items to nourish, protect, heal, strengthen your senses.

At night, look for your next set of instructions. Continue to keep this quiet. One never knows whom one can trust.

One last parting admonition: your necklace has deeper meaning. It defines you and is one of a kind. It is meant to be with you. Treasure it and let it remind you how strong you are.

I turned the next few pages, but that was all.

I dropped the book on the floor. My trembling hands flew to the night table, fumbling for the gold pendant, which I had taken off before bed. It took three tries to get the tiny clasp to fasten around my neck, but once it did, I vowed to leave it there. I pressed it hard against me and felt my heart racing underneath it.

I left the light on and reached for the Chicago history book and began reading until I started to doze off.