Illuminate (17 page)

The footsteps reached the threshold of the room. I pushed my back against the wall, wishing to melt into it. And listened. He took a step or two and then, as though remembering where he was going or changing his mind, he walked away, down the hallway I hadn’t explored yet. I waited until I couldn’t hear his footsteps and then I waited some more. Finally I crept from my spot into that room, toward that door. A column ran through the center of the horizontal bar, accepting a cylindrical key that would have to be shaped like a pentagram. On the door itself was another larger lock in the same design. I touched it and my hand flew back involuntarily. The door was stovetop hot. I shook my hand to cool it, but this did little more than make my wrist ache too. I needed to get out of here.

But there was one more path to try. I headed back the way Beckett had gone, past a few locked doors and an open one. Inside the narrow hallway, the only light came from slim strips along the tops of the walls. I followed them, feeling blindly for extra guidance. I was too scared to put the flashlight on. He could be standing here, waiting for me. But another fear propelled me, fear of what might happen if I didn’t pursue this path, if I didn’t complete my assignment tonight sufficiently enough to satisfy what this awful book expected of me. The temperature cooled off as I walked along, and my jumbled head began to clear.
Just see this to the end and you can go back up to your room and your bed, back near where Dante and Lance slept just a few yards away.

I felt the bass first, beating and thumping in my chest and then my head. The volume got louder, and I could almost name the song. Then the track lighting along the ceiling stopped and so did I. In the distance, a cascading flame flickered.

I had reached the Vault. I was on the other side of that fiery wall.

I ran. I flew out of there before anyone might find me, back the way I’d come, through the dark hall, and the door and the corridor to the planks up to my room. I fumbled on the first few planks, my palms so sweaty I couldn’t grip them; my feet slipped and slid. But I had something going up that I didn’t quite have on my way down: a rush of adrenaline. I couldn’t bear another minute down there. My skin crawled, every ounce of me burned to get back up to my room, to close up this portal. I made it up a few of the planks and got into a groove. I went as fast as I could, finding that if I just kept in motion not trying to get perfect footing, I could keep ascending. Sweat slicked up every inch of my skin, making my T-shirt stick to me, and my hair stick against my face. Finally I saw the light from my room. I pulled myself up with the last bit of strength I had and crawled onto the floor of the closet, slamming the door down with my foot. I couldn’t move. My chest heaved. I closed my eyes; everything ached. Muscles I didn’t even know I had cried out in pain.

I fell asleep on the floor.

And of all the competing images and horrific scenes I’d witnessed that day, the one thing that flashed like a strobe light in my mind as I dozed was the last thing I would have expected: I kept seeing that painting,
La Jeune Martyre.

11. Tell Me You Forgive Me or I Won’t Let You Go

I woke up on the floor—my first clue that last night had really happened. I had hoped it was a dream, another bad one, but no, I was on that worn, matted-down carpet in my T-shirt and jeans. The only pleasant surprise: the swelling above my eyebrow had miraculously managed to deflate. At least my face had returned to a relatively normal state, even if my mind was as scrambled as ever. I got myself showered and dressed and then, hand to my stomach to quiet the queasiness, I slunk toward Aurelia’s office for our morning meeting, still constructing an adequate defense for why I had failed to take photos at the Vault. I was nervous, and also in pain. It took great effort to move my legs after all that climbing last night. Simply lifting my arm up to rap on the door of her office strained my weary muscles.

“Yes, come.” I heard her beckon. I opened the door and found her seated at her desk, papers in her hand. She barely let me take one step before asking, “Are you finished painting that mural?”

“Um, definitely not.”

“Good, don’t come back until you are.”

I nodded and pulled the door shut again. I had gotten lucky. As soon as I was alone in the darkened hallway, my stomach steadied and I discovered I was starving. Ravenous. I needed to eat immediately. The mural could surely wait a few minutes.

Lance, it appeared, had had the same idea. I found him already seated at the butcher-block island of the Parlor’s kitchen, hunched over a bowl of cereal.

“Hey,” he said.

“Morning,” I said as he pushed a box of Lucky Charms toward me. “Thanks. We need our strength to channel Hieronymus Bosch.” I pulled a bowl down from the cupboard, grabbed a spoon, and took the seat next to him, pouring my cereal.

“No kidding.” After a moment, he asked, “So what were you up to last night?”

“I pretty much just passed out. I was so tired after, you know, everything.” Not a lie necessarily, I just omitted a few details.

“I came by. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I saw your light on under the door, but you didn’t answer.”

“I must’ve been asleep already.”

“I guess.” He wasn’t satisfied. I could tell by the way he poked at his cereal with his spoon. He tried again: “Should I ask if you want to, you know, talk about last night?”

“Um—”

“Fine, no problem, we can change the subject.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t mean to be so evasive. I wanted to talk, but I had no idea what I could get away with. After the drugstore, and Beckett, and everything that happened last night, I didn’t want to go inviting any daily opportunities for death, as the book so kindly warned. So I said nothing.

Finally, Lance gave in and spoke. “So, changing the subject: Who’s George Phillips?” He tried to lighten his voice, as though he knew I needed to be distracted.

I brightened too and made a fake gasp. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. But we’re in love! We’re running away together.” I fluttered my eyelashes.

“Hilarious.” He rolled his eyes.

“Please. Al Capone’s alias when he lived here.”

“Did you get to the part about how he used to see ghosts here? His henchmen thought he was losing it.”

“Yep. Haunted by folks he knew who got killed in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.” Now that I thought about it, I felt a bit of an odd kinship with Capone. Poor guy had those scars, was tormented by these visions, and no one believed him. Although, he deserved it, didn’t he? I offered my own piece of trivia. “Here’s one: what floor did he live on?”

“Fifth. You’re good.”

“We have to start reading different books so we can actually stump each other.”

“That’s a good idea.” He thought about it. “Then we can compare notes. Okay, we’re officially a study group.”

“Deal.”

Lance and I painted all afternoon, mostly in silence, starting at opposite ends of the mural and working our way in. We decided starting at the top made the most sense. After last night I wasn’t so scared of ladders anymore.

I yawned my way through the day, exhausted and sore, and caught Lance looking over from time to time, no doubt wondering if a person this sleepy should be balancing ten feet in the air and trying to paint. He probably also wondered what had me so tired if I really had gone to bed as early as I’d claimed. But the repetition of the work, painting the same color for hours, this inky black sky, could make anyone at least a little numb. I felt my mind wandering. When it roamed too far—back to that book, to the idea that I would at some point have to go back down the passage in the closet again—I would rein it back in and send it off running in a more pleasant direction, if I could find one. This is what I was doing when I thought I heard my name. I must’ve missed it the first few times he called because when Lucian’s voice finally reached me, Lance just shook his head at me.

“Looking good, guys.” Lucian strolled toward us, hair looser, the way it was at the Vault that first night. He wasn’t in one of his trademark suits either, but wore jeans, a slim V-neck sweater with a button-down shirt underneath, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up: effortless, all of it. Dressed like this, it reinforced how young he seemed. But any way you looked at it, he was out of my league. He stood in the space between our ladders, looking up at us. “Move over, Michelangelo.”

“It’s Bosch, actually,” Lance said, not in a know-it-all way, just putting it out there.

“Back off, Bosch,” Lucian corrected himself.

It took me this long to formulate a greeting. “Hi,” I said at last.

“Hi.” Lucian held on to the side of my ladder with one arm. Lance turned back to his work. “Didn’t want to startle you up there, so—”

“No, not at all.” I smiled down at him.

“Hey, could I . . . ?” He motioned for me.

“Oh . . . yeah, of course,” I said, slowly processing and savoring that he had come in here wanting to talk to me. I focused on stepping down from the ladder as gracefully as possible. If ever there was a moment for poise, this was it. I was a few rungs from the bottom when he held a hand up toward me. I looked at it, smooth and perfect with elegant fingers. I was supposed to grab it and let him guide me down. Shifting, I took his hand and then took the last few steps much too fast, one-two-three, nearly sliding down them and landing with the slightest bounce. It may have just looked like I had a burst of energy and not like I bungled those last few steps, but really I had come painfully close to falling. Even so, Lucian grinned, his blue-laced gray eyes swimming into mine.

He flicked his head toward the doors of the gallery and I followed.

“You guys are doing a nice job,” he said as we walked.

“Thanks.” I could barely look at him. “I think it’s going better than we thought. As long as it doesn’t come out looking like Jackson Pollock it’ll be better than I expected.”

He laughed.

“We just got a couple great pieces in today. I’ll have to show you,” he said. “And supposedly we’re getting one of Capone’s old hats too.” He held the gallery door open for me and I stepped through.

“Well . . . hats off to you.” I smiled.

“Indeed,” he said with that look, the playful one that drank me in. We were outside the gallery now and wandering toward the front of the lobby. We had it all to ourselves. “I heard Aurelia was happy with your photos of the Outfit.”

“Oh? I’m glad.”

“She would never tell you this but she loved the one you took of her. She even called the printer to have them blow it up bigger than she had originally planned.” He paused and then lowered his voice. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Hear what?” I said, playing along.

“Exactly,” he whispered back.

He stopped walking and looked at me. “But I didn’t come by to talk about Aurelia or photos.”

He looked serious. “I feel awful about this, but is there any chance we could reschedule that dinner? Things are getting hectic with the opening so close. I know that’s a terrible excuse but I’m hoping you’ll let me make it up to you?” He looked like he was bracing for me to be upset. What alternate universe had I slipped into that
he
was trying to convince
me
to see him? These few minutes were the highlight of my year so far. Or at least, this came in second to my birthday. So, yes, a resounding yes, he was welcome to make it up to me anytime.

“Sure.” I was a little nervous anyway and could use more prep time—this alleged dinner was going to be my first date. Ever. I didn’t count the homecoming dance this past fall with Dante, for obvious reasons. “Totally understand.”

“Thank you.” He was serious, his expression stormy for just a flash. “There’s just . . . a lot going on these days.”

“I imagine. It sounds like the gala is going to be incredible.”

“We hope.”

“It’ll be strange to see this place full of people.”

“I know.” He scanned the lobby, distracted.

“It must feel like you’re about to open up your home and take on, like, three hundred boarders.”

“Yeah, I guess it is like that.”

“What’s your favorite thing about this place?”

“I don’t know, I never thought about it,” he said, eyes away for a moment, as though he were finally giving it some consideration. “You?”

“Me?”
It came out before my reasoning faculties had kicked in. I had skidded into some intersection of dream and reality. But, no, slow down—he hadn’t meant
me,
specifically. “I mean, oh my favorite—hmmm—I like the chandelier.” I pointed toward it. “The way it looks different depending on the time of day. It has personality.”

“I suppose it sort of does, doesn’t it?”

I shrugged, shy again. We had reached the gallery entrance, that curtain shrouding the glass door.

“Well, I guess I can’t let Lance paint that whole thing . . .” My hands fidgeted.

“No, I guess you can’t, can you?” he said. With an outstretched arm, Lucian pulled the velvet curtain back for me to pass, then in one sweeping movement, wrapped it around both of us so we were cocooned in it. His cedar scent made my head spin and my skin bake. I’m sure I couldn’t hide the shock in my face.

“Tell me you forgive me for Friday or I won’t let you go,” he said.

“Now I’m not sure what the right answer is.”

“Good.” He kissed me quick on the cheek.

Then he spun us out of the curtain. I stumbled toward the gallery door.

“Dinner soon, I promise,” he said.

I nodded, still lightheaded, in the most wonderful way.

He slipped out behind the curtain and was gone.

Lance was still up on the ladder when I glided back in. I had to collect myself before going up. My arms and legs felt like liquid, nothing the least bit sturdy about them. “Important business meeting, Ms. Terra?” he asked, eyes on me for only a second then returning to his work with a smirk.

We painted steadily, with only a short break to make sandwiches at lunchtime (not as good as Dante’s but edible nonetheless), until we could feel the shift of day melting into dusk.