Illuminate (22 page)

“Thanks.” I tugged at the top of my dress again, then caught myself and stopped. “You too.”

“Right.”

“No, really.” It was true.

We watched as the well-dressed partygoers circulated around us, tossing back their drinks and admiring the art and macabre artifacts. To my right, a glass cube on a pedestal displayed a blood-splattered shirt supposedly from the night of the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.

“Oh, wishing you a heartfelt happy massacre day,” he said, holding up his shot glass.

“To you too,” I said, lifting my glass.

“It truly is a holiday of horrors, Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?”

“Cheers.” I rolled my eyes.

“Seriously, its history is riddled with martyrs and deaths in equal measure.”

“Bah humbug.”

“I mean, dating back to, like, the fourth century.”

“The third—but you’ve gotta let it go. So a priest was stoned to death for marrying people when it was outlawed. Get over it,” I joked. This is what happens when you pay too much attention in AP Euro.

We wandered over to the photography exhibit, which, in addition to a host of old black and whites of the original Lexington, included the wall of my shots of the Outfit.

“I could go on: a holiday with a history of torture and injustices.”

“And chocolate.”

“And commercialism.”

“Okay, okay, I got it.”

We were silent for a moment, studying all the photos. So many perfect faces staring back at us. I thought if I looked close enough I might be able to see the reflection of my camera lens in Lucian’s eye.

“What was I saying about injustice?”

“Hmm?” I was lost in the photos, trying to dissect them.
Beauty is genius, beauty is power.
I had never quite thought of it that way.

“You could’ve just told me if you didn’t want to fix my picture.” Lance’s tone had dropped into the realm of muted, seething anger. It snapped me out of my reverie. I turned to him.

“What?”

“You didn’t need to lie about it.” His voice was flat as hurt stormed in his eyes, clouding them.

“What are you talking about?”

He knocked a knuckle against the wall near his picture and walked to the opposite end of the display, back near a picture of Raphaella. There, below his eye, the scar cut across his face, a puffy line underscoring a deep brown eye. It shot through my heart, draining it.

“I fixed this!” I called over to him, louder than I intended. He looked at me stone-faced, betrayed. “I swear, I saw this today—I saw it this morning. It was perfect.” I shook my head. “This is a different photo, it’s got to be. I don’t know what—” I stopped myself. A few quick steps down the line, I stood before my own, focusing.

No!

There they were, the tops of my own scars, peeking out above the neckline of that dreaded white top, like thin, gnarled pink fingers reaching out. My stomach dropped. Every single person who had come through here all night had seen this. Those unmistakably ugly marks on me that I had so carefully erased, that I tugged at my dress even now to try to shield.

“Hey,” I said to him again. He glared back at me, fuming under the surface but trying to hold his ire, I could tell. “Come ’ere.”

He walked over—his face set in an expression that said,
You’re lucky if I listen to a single word you say.

“Look at this,” I ordered. It came out terse, edging toward hostile. I slapped the spot below my picture. “And tell me if you think I wanted
this one
up there?”

He leaned in toward my picture and didn’t see it at first—he didn’t know what he was looking for—but then his face loosened, his eyes fastened on that strange burned-claw marking. He looked at me: the bottomless wells of his eyes behind those frames softened now, sympathy and confusion creeping in.

I glanced around us. Everyone seemed to be lost in their own witty banter and borderline inebriation, engrossed in different parts of the gallery. We were the only ones near this sweep of photos. So I moved closer to Lance, looked up at him, and, summoning my nerve, pulled aside the neckline of my dress an inch or so, showing just that spot, a hint of those disfigured marks. He looked down very quick, his eyes widening involuntarily, and then darting away just as fast as I patted my dress back in place. We both faced the photos again. We didn’t say anything. But I needed him to know that I understood. And that I knew exactly how he felt, because that’s how I felt too.

And I was scared.

14. You Might Have a Dark Side

I tried to retrace the past day: everyone who had been in the gallery since this morning, everyone who had access to my computer. Who would do something like this? Those pictures did not look that way earlier. What had happened in the space of those several hours? I had looked at each shot so closely and so proudly.

Lance and I stood facing the display, not a word for such a long time. I was still sorting through my loose, disjointed thoughts when he said into the space before him, softly, wounded: “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too—I don’t know what—”

“I know you don’t. It’s okay.” He looked at me, nodding once. “Let’s maybe just not look at these anymore right now. I think that’s the best thing.”

I nodded back in agreement, even though I wasn’t so patient. Lance started to walk away. I took a deep breath, shifted my dress into place, and took a few steps until I saw him get waylaid by Raphaella’s tall, blond luminousness. I halted, frozen in my tracks. She swooped right in, sidling up to him looking like that uniform was made for her. Her hair coated her shoulders in flaxen sheets, and as she swung that silky mane, she seemed to hang on his every word. But he was doing a fine job playing hard to get—he almost didn’t look interested at all. He wasn’t fumbling or fidgeting in that way of his. He just looked like he could take it or leave it; take
her
or leave her. Well done, Lance. I supposed I could learn a thing or two from him.

Just as I thought this,
he
appeared: Lucian. Standing just off in the space behind Lance and Raphaella, back near that endless mural, with a drink in his hand. I looked away and my gaze flitted quickly to where I had last spotted Aurelia and that man. Both were gone. I could feel Lucian watching me. I waited as long as I could—mere seconds—and my eyes, unable to stay away, went to him again. The dim light glinted off his creamy skin and his slicked-back locks; he had on a tuxedo that he wore with perfect ease. He took a few steps forward. I slid into the dark corner near the Outfit photos, an internal alarm sounding in my quietly heaving chest as he got nearer.

“You did a lovely job on that mural after all,” Lucian spoke into my ear. I felt the ground shift ever so slightly, and for a moment I was convinced I might melt into it but I steadied myself. “You’ve captured the spitting image of hell. I’m surprised, and it takes a lot to surprise me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you might have a dark side.”

I struggled to find the words and still felt his breath lingering. I wondered if I should turn to face him, but I couldn’t move. I just stared straight ahead at these pictures I’d already looked at for much too long.
Please don’t let him see my marred photo,
I thought.

If there was anyone else in the room, any soul at all, I couldn’t feel it. All had been drained from this scene save for the two of us and the strains of the music piped in from the lobby—slow, suggestive and seductive, with weeping horns. My pulse sped up.

“Well, thank you.” I pursed my lips for just a beat to stop them from quivering. “But I think I was out of my element. I might have had better luck with his
Earthly Delights
than that.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his lips move. “I’m sure you’d be very successful in all matters of earthly delights if given the opportunity.”

He stepped in front of me and then forward, a slow step or two, backing me farther into the corner.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Thank you? And likewise.” I was a little unsure of myself, which he seemed to read as coy—that was fine with me.

He smiled. Lightheaded, I took another step back; my free hand groped for the wall behind my back and found it. I let my body be supported by it. I wished I could have stashed this drink somewhere—I seemed destined to spill it on myself. Lucian leaned one shoulder against the wall, nearly touching mine so that we made a right angle. I felt trapped, in a pleasant way. He rattled what little ice was left in his glass, watching it swish in the remaining liquid, which seemed to match the color of my eyes. With the tip of my index finger I touched the spot where my scar flamed beneath my dress, wishing for some way to cool it, wondering if the fabric had somehow irritated it even though it was the smoothest silk. My body must have been mistaking my nerves for fear. Lucian caught my hand in his.

“Now, this is very nice.” He pulled my hand toward him for a closer look at the ring. The giant diamond rivaled his eyes in sparkle and splendor, but lost out to them.

“I know. It’s Aurelia’s, of course. I feel like I should have my own security detail for all of this jewelry. It was very generous of her to let me wear her things.”

“You wear it well,” he said, smoldering.

“Thank you.” He let my hand down. It didn’t feel like it was attached to me anymore. I didn’t know where to put it. It returned to its previous spot behind my back, against the wall. “She’s been really wonderful to me tonight. She’s introduced me to everyone.”

“I hear she intends for you to take on even more responsibility as we move forward.”

“She mentioned something like that. I would love that,” I said, then decided to ask. “She introduced me to a gentleman tonight, in a tux. He was standing over there for a while—” I gestured toward the gallery entrance. “But I didn’t get his name. I wondered if—”

“That’s just the Prince,” he cut in, a hint of annoyance curdling his milky voice. I briefly wondered if I got the luxury of Lucian’s attention now only because Aurelia was caught up with this other man—but truthfully, I didn’t care so much. I just wanted his eyes and his thoughts and his focus on me, any way I could get it. The more time I spent with him, the more I wanted.

“Just the Prince?”

“Yeah.”

“From where?”

“Nowhere you’ve ever been. Not important. He’s just a friend,” he said, a little snide and cold for my taste. I was offended, but only for a moment. I shouldn’t have brought any of it up, that’s all. Why couldn’t I just savor these times with him and not sabotage them?

“Well, it sounds like you have friends in high places.” I glanced away, fingers fidgeting.

“Maybe so,” he said, smirking as he sipped his drink. “Or maybe low ones.” He sized me up. “You’re different than the girls I’m used to.” He said it with assurance, as a fact, a startling new discovery he’d just declared to be true. He was probably right. I was not a bit like the leggy glamazons of the Outfit. I wasn’t sure that I should consider this a compliment. “You’re sweet,” he said now, seeming to have read my mind. “I love that.”

I couldn’t suppress my blushing or the soft smile that turned up the corners of my lips. I couldn’t keep my eyes from darting to his and then away. I didn’t say a thing. If I spoke it would only ruin it.

“What’s it like to be you?” he asked, a touch of whimsy in his voice.

“Me?”

“What’s it like to be sweet and kind?”

“I’m sure you know, you’re—”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“It’s not very exciting, I’m afraid,” I whispered playfully. “But I’m just wired this way, I guess.” I shrugged. “But I’m no saint.”

“Really, because I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Tell me, though, do you think a person is predestined to be good or bad, or do you think someone could override that sort of thing?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on the person and how badly they want to defeat it.”

I could feel his eyes boring into me when I looked away, his focus unwavering. I couldn’t quite look at him with the same intensity without going a little weak.

“You might be right,” he said. He permitted himself one long sweeping look at the photos, taking them all in as one. If he noticed mine, then he was a gentleman because he didn’t say anything at all about its imperfections.

“You know, some Native American tribes thought the camera could steal your soul,” I said, just to get his eyes away from them. He looked toward me again. I felt a relief, and then a fluttering.

“These turned out beautifully. I know you said it’s your subjects, but I have to disagree. Respectfully, of course.”

“Of course.”

“See, I think each photographer brings something of herself, or himself, to each photo. There’s something of you reflected in these, whether you like it or not. You may indeed have to take some credit.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Then thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We were silent for a moment and it occurred to me: “Is this all a way of telling me it’s time for me to get back to work?” I said. I caught sight of Lance, still talking to Raphaella. Or rather she was talking but he was staring at me with stern eyes and a furrowed brow. He didn’t even look away or change his expression when he saw that I noticed him. Lucian was talking though, and I pushed Lance out of my mind and line of vision.

“What do you mean? Work?” Lucian asked.

“Oh, just . . . I’m supposed to take photos in the Vault tonight.”

“Ahhhh, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then.” He knocked back the last of his drink and placed his empty glass and my full one—brushing his fingers against mine as he did—on a passing tray. “What are we waiting for?”

I tilted my head at the
we,
wondering if I’d heard right.

“Hurry,” he breathed. “Before someone comes along and I get stuck here.”

Hurry?
Hurry, he said. Gladly.

After I had grabbed the camera from the back office, Lucian led us down the staircase, wisely avoiding the long line that had formed at the elevator. As we walked down, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell, my feet almost didn’t hurt. There was no one else for whom I could have braved all those steps in those heels. He had let me go in front of him and was guiding me with a protective hand on the small of my back. I was hyperaware of him there, attached to me, even with just these light, featherweight fingertips. We reached the door at the bottom and he pushed it open for me to step through. We could hear the music of the club now, beating fast as my heart.