Illuminate (19 page)

As instructed, I kept a low profile and spent the following day painting after showing Aurelia the club photos. She was pleased and told me to have Lance upload them to add to the loop of shots flashing on the flat screen at the front desk, then ordered me to take more photos the night of the gala opening, a vote of confidence that made me proud. But, even so, I sleepwalked through much of the day, that dread setting in at the back of my mind and in the pit of my stomach, clouding my thoughts as each hour passed bringing me closer to evening when I would be forced to descend and run through the underground. I prayed that I would simply be running and not running
from
anyone. It had been a close call with Beckett and I didn’t want to think about what might happen if I saw him again and wasn’t so lucky in hiding. I didn’t really want to come across any members of the Outfit down there, or anyone at all.

At the end of the day, Lance and I cleaned up and grabbed a sandwich in the Parlor kitchen. I needed to think of something else, anything else, so I pressed him about a certain matter that he hadn’t breathed a word of all day.

“So . . . how’d it go last night with Raphaella? She’s, like, freakishly beautiful. Like, underwear model beautiful.”

He shrugged, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Yeah.” He chewed, and then he took another bite. And then he chewed some more. Another bite. I watched him, waiting for him to expand upon this. But nothing came, just his soft gnawing at his food.
Yeah?
That’s all I was getting? I let it go and we finished our meals and returned to our respective rooms, bidding each other good night.

Tucked back in my room, I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. I put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, took my flashlight and a deep breath, and opened the closet door.

The climb wasn’t necessarily easier this time, but at least it was slightly familiar—I had braced myself for the ache and sting of my fingers as I clung to the planks and for that queasy feeling of descending into utter darkness. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I silently congratulated myself on a successful trip down.

The running could have gone better. I got winded a few minutes in—
minutes
—and had to walk about twenty feet, then picked up running again but at such a diminished speed that walking might have been faster. This is why my most rebellious act to date had been faking a sprained ankle when we were running the mile in gym class because I just couldn’t bear to come in last as everyone else watched and heckled me.

When I reached that storage room door, I caught my breath and then ran right back. Once my prescribed hour of exertion was up, I returned to the ladder, anxious to crawl into my bed and rest my spent muscles. If only there were some way that the climb
up
could be at the beginning of this conditioning and the climb
down
at the end. But I pawed my way up the planks—resting midway, panting, holding on with every shred of my being and eventually making it to my closet and the relatively safe confines of my room.

***

The days began to pass quickly. Lance and I finished the mural—and it wasn’t half bad—and kept busy with a series of odd jobs: straightening up rooms here and there; unpacking the gold-edged china for the Capone restaurant; fluffing LH-insignia-embroidered pillows and folding towels and all sorts of other not so glamorous tasks. I hadn’t seen Lucian for days and had barely seen Aurelia more than a few minutes, when she would order me to do something.

Dante had been keeping vampire hours. He was up all afternoon and evening feeding the Vault and fine-tuning the gala menu with Etan, then sleeping much of the day. We really were two ships passing in the night—or more like the morning, when he would roll in post-club and I would be up early, heading to see Aurelia and get my marching orders. My nighttime sprinting had been wearing me out, but I stuck to it, reveling in the quiet victory of snipping a few seconds off my time, or waking up the morning after and feeling even a shade less in pain than I had after my previous training session.

On that Friday afternoon the day before the opening-night gala, we were all summoned to the library for a staff meeting, instructed to wear our new hotel-issued uniforms for a sort of dress rehearsal. We had been given seven each, so we could get through a week before doing laundry. I had tried mine on for the first time in my room an hour before the meeting. I slipped into the slim black dress I had seen on Celine weeks earlier and zipped up the side. It fit just fine, even if it wasn’t a bit like anything I’d ever worn. Dante came by to show off his uniformed look: he had a chef’s coat with his name stitched in, and his own hat too.

“You look totally hot. You clean up nice, girl!” He sprawled out on my bed, watching me try to figure out how to secure my hair in the back without making it look even worse than it did down.

“You don’t think it’s too short?” I asked, watching myself in the mirror and tugging on the hem of the dress, then checking his reflection for the verdict. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Ugh. Please. It’s not short at all, grandma. Could you be more prudish please?”

“Sorry, geez, I was just asking.”

“When did your gams get so good anyway? Is that actual muscle tone?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe.”

“Check you out!”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Love the hat.”

“Thanks, I know. Sexy, right?” He mugged, making a face.

“Totally.” I laughed. I twisted my hair and wrapped an elastic around it, but it didn’t seem to want to stay in place. Aurelia had ordered me to wear it back in a chignon, but I had no idea how to accomplish that. It didn’t escape Dante’s notice.

“Okay, step aside and make room for someone who actually knows what he’s doing.” He got up and waved his hands for me to relinquish my elastic, bobby pins, and hairbrush. He pushed me into the desk chair, facing the mirror, and twisted and fluffed and tied back and pinned—and in no time, he had me looking exactly as I hoped Aurelia had had in mind.

“Voilà!” he said.

“Not bad,” I said, looking at my reflection.

“Hope you were taking notes. I’m not doing that for you every day.”

I stepped into the heels—also part of the uniform—black and strappy and at least four inches high. I had worn heels only a few times in my life, and never for very long periods of time. These pinched and rubbed at the back of my foot and smushed my toes together, actively injuring me with each step toward the mirror.
Ow.
But at the same time, now that I studied my reflection, this finished product, I had to admit it all conspired to be a polished look. I felt like a slightly more adult version of myself, someone more serious and accomplished. As Aurelia had said, uniforms really did change the way you felt about the work you were doing. I wanted to be even more perfect than ever now. I wanted to do the uniform proud.

Dante and I stopped by to get Lance, who answered the door buttoning his cuffs and without his tie. The men would be in black pants, button-down shirts, and insignia-bearing vests with red ties. He looked at us, sheepish, and held up the tie. “I’ve always had trouble with this.”

He looked more filled out in the black uniform, still long and lean but more solid than he had in his usual jeans and T-shirts. Or maybe I just hadn’t noticed how fit he was.

Dante stepped in to help, whipping the tie with sharp whooshes. “I don’t know what you people would do without me. Who’s gonna get you dressed in the morning? Not it!”

“Thanks,” Lance said quietly.

“I’ll be giving a tutorial in hair and tie origami later,” Dante added.

“Sign us up,” I said.

When we reached the library, the Outfit was already suited up and stretched out in a line side by side. I tried not to pay attention to how stunning the girls looked in the same ensemble I had on. They also all had their hair tied back—some in sleek ponytails, some in twists, some in buns—and the men had theirs slicked back like Lucian’s. Uniforms normally evened the playing field by stripping away armor and peacock plumage. But with these people, who would look unbelievable in anything, all I could do was give myself a tiny bit of credit for looking better in these clothes than I had expected.

Aurelia swanned in, Lucian beside her, and studied us all.

“Tomorrow at three in the afternoon, our home is going to open its doors,” she began slowly, thoughtfully, as though about to impart something vital and serious. “New rules will be put into place. You are no longer to be seen anywhere out of uniform, except in the Vault, where you are to be attired in a manner befitting a representative of the hotel after hours. To get there, kindly use the stairwell behind the gallery rather than the elevator. Use the freight elevator to get to your rooms. Other communal areas—the library, Parlor, Capone, and the gallery—are off-limits unless you’re on official business there. Meals can still be taken in the alcove of the Parlor kitchen, but not during peak hours. When it comes to interaction with the guests, do not speak unless spoken to but radiate an aura of general helpfulness, utmost professionalism, and effortlessness.” Lucian, leaning against one of the desks, looked forward. His eyes caught mine and I looked away. I took a deep breath.

“Each of you will get instructions on what your job will be at the gala. Many of you will merely be ambiance, decoration, the equivalent of background music, which in itself is an important role at an event like this.”

We all nodded in unison, standing firm and stiff. She stepped toward the door. “Until further notice . . .” She didn’t finish; she just let that fragment linger as she and Lucian disappeared, trailed by the Outfit.

The next morning, Aurelia dispatched me to the gallery to “supervise”—and by “supervise” she meant mill around just to make sure disaster didn’t strike as the newly framed photos were being hung. They looked even more stunning as a group—the whole even greater than the sum of its parts. Aurelia’s photo was, naturally, the biggest, roughly four feet wide by six feet tall and occupying a space dead center on the wall nearest the gallery entrance. The next grandest was Lucian’s, half the size of Aurelia’s but far more dramatic to my eyes: even now I felt that he was watching me. The photos of the Outfit circled these, in orbit around them. And on this galaxy’s outskirts: Lance, Dante, and me, tangential and tertiary to their core. Off to the side was a small printed placard that read “Photography by Haven Terra.” I drew closer to it, thinking my eyes had fooled me. But, no, there I was. That I hadn’t expected at all.

I left the gallery, everything perfectly in place, and stepped into the lobby. For a moment I felt truly part of it all—part of the hubbub and excitement that bubbled up, ready to burst forth tonight at this event, which would have to be something more electric than anything I’d ever witnessed. I could already feel an extra buzz and current in the air. The lobby seemed to hum in anticipation of all these strangers descending, all these people who would flock in search of something special. And I had never seen the place looking more worthy of adoration. Flower arrangements of only the most exotic, wildly shaped, boldly hued blooms dotted every table and surface, along with candles already lit and flickering even though it was just after noon. The chandelier gleamed and sparkled. Swinging jazz music swirled all around.

I had done a lap around the lobby, admiring it on my way to find the freight elevator and make my trial run, taking that rickety ride down to the basement level, when I saw Lucian. He was suited up and sprucing up a flower arrangement at the front desk. Behind him the flat screen shuffled through the photos I had taken at the Vault. Every single person who stayed here would see them when they checked in, just as everyone who set foot in the gallery would see my work, and my name, there. I had left a mark. Lucian’s eyes found me and he smiled, beckoning me.

“Haven,” he greeted me as I got near. “Did you see the gallery?”

“I was just there. It’s amazing. I had no idea my name would be up there.”

“You deserved it.”

“Thanks.” I felt myself blush and tried to stop it by looking away, changing the subject. “So, it’s almost showtime.”

“I know, hard to believe. Don’t let her make you work too hard tonight. You should get to have fun too, you know.”

“Well, if you insist, then . . .”

He leaned over, fussing with the flowers again—there were black and white bulbous orchid-looking things and ones that looked like ruffly black roses. He picked out one, pushed one side of my hair behind my ear, and then tucked the flower there. The bloom was so full I could feel it tickle my cheek.

“I do. I’ll see you around tonight?”

“Of course,” I said as he wandered off, a few steps backwards, still facing me.

“Good.” He grinned again. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

***

Back in my room, I made a home for my precious flower—the only flower I’d ever gotten from any boy—in a drinking glass and set it on my nightstand. I had just buried my nose in its petals, soaking in its spicy almost-lavender scent, when a knock rattled the door. Through the peephole, I saw Dante in his chef’s coat holding a plant in his hands. I opened up.

“We’re so formal today,” I joked. He wasn’t one to knock if the door was unlocked.

“HAP-py Valentine’s Day!” he greeted me, holding out the potted plant and walking right in. He set it down on the desk, clearing a place among the handful of Chicago books I’d been hoarding. “Something gorgeous just like you! I found it in our garden and thought you might love it.”

“It’s beautiful, Dan, you’re too sweet!” I leaned in to smell. The scent was like warm cookies. “There’s a garden here?”

He looked surprised that I didn’t know this. “Um, yeah.”

“Who knew?” I touched the flower. The waxy crimson petals were warm against my fingertips. The bloom was easily the size of my palm, shaped like a star and a few inches deep. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it an orchid or what?”

“Close, it’s a hybrid of . . .” He slowed down. “Of . . . something and something else.”