Revelation (26 page)

I need to say no.

But my voice, my lips—they refuse to work properly.

The figure approaches, passing, fingers sweeping along my skin. The moment evaporates, disappearing with a delicious shiver, and my attention shifts as he saunters away, dark hair shining beneath each new slant of light.

Seth.

T
HIRTY-ONE

"Thank you, gentleman. I'll be in touch." Luke shakes every hand as I linger by the car, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, afraid to stop moving for fear of freezing to the sidewalk. An icy breeze rips between us as he opens the door. It's warm inside, a dry heat, as if the engine idled through dinner.

As we pull into the street, as my fingers and my toes begin to thaw, my thoughts swirl.

It wasn't him. It's impossible. There's no way.

If it wasn't him, then who was it?
The voice in my head counters.
It looked just like him.

I don't know. My imagination. My mind playing tricks on me. What I
wanted
to see—not what was really there.

Luke speaks, interrupting, jarring me back to reality, and I realize I haven't heard a single word he's said since we left the restaurant.

"What?"

"I said I appreciate you coming with me tonight."

The world shifts, sinking into weightlessness. "Oh." I turn toward the window, squeezing my eyes shut. But those sparkles—those lights—already they lure me into them. "You're, um, welcome."

No visions. Please,
I beg.
Not here.

"Are you all right?" Luke's voice is far away, distant.

"I'm fine," I lie. Only it sounds like someone else speaking for me. The pitch of my voice—it's not that high. It doesn't chime like a bell, echo in my head. "It's. . . ." I can't shake the sensation, force it away. "Something's happening."

"I'm sorry?"

My eyes fly open as a car veers into our lane, cutting off the driver. The wheel spins as he swerves to avoid the collision, and my body slams into the door, head cracking against the panel. Luke's arm flies in front of me, restraining, pushing me into the seat. Tires grate the asphalt, squealing as we spin, and time folds into itself—time where seconds become minutes and minutes hours. Stopping altogether.

We hit the sidewalk, bodies jolting.

My heart drums in my chest, too fast, pounding in my ears.

"Are you all right?" Luke asks, fumbling for his seat belt.

A cell phone trills, punctuating the stillness. He reaches inside his coat pocket and examines the screen, then searches the world around us, face paling in the streetlight.

He grabs my hand, shoving my sleeve aside and flipping my wrist over and back again in an anxious search.

"What is it?" 

"Your coat," he orders. "Give it to me!"

I shrug it off, trembling, wilting beneath the demand.

He sucks in a sharp breath, holding it, cool fingers wandering along my skin between my shoulders.

"Fucking Hell," he growls. He pushes against the door, stepping into the frigid air.

"What is going on?" I ask, following, trailing him to the dark SUV stopped behind us. "Luke?"

My bare skin burns with cold, breath frosting, arms hugging my elbows to keep warm.

"Lucien?" Our heads turn in tandem, toward this new voice emerging from the shadows.

My coat flutters to the sidewalk.

Luke pitches forward, fingers cutting into my skin as he wraps them around my arm, yanking me closer. His green eyes run cold, boring into me, hand slipping beneath the hemline of my skirt. He blinks, breaking contact, and, before I can think, breathe, protest, shoves me behind him. In a moment I'm trapped, pinned between Luke and the SUV, his one arm acting as a barrier, cementing me in place, and the other extended, aiming for the alley.

Shit.

The gun. He has my gun!

"It was a mistake," Luke insists, breaths heavy.

The man in the shadows: "You don't make mistakes."

"I want an audience with them."

A short, caustic laugh. "You're wasting an audience on her?" he asks, disbelieving.

"Send word to Silas!
No one
is to touch her until we've spoken. That is final!" His voice wavers, mangled, laced with panic.

Silas.

The Council?

A spasm of fear paralyzes my lungs at the name. Tears sting my eyes, streetlights smearing, fading around edges, smothered to a brilliant nothing.

Luke stands firm, gun pointed, finger curled around the trigger, primed. He shields me, protecting me, refusing to back down. I clench his coat with my fingers, holding on to him, feeling his entire body pounding, heart battering. It's wild and alive. Erratic and fierce and wholly out of control.

What is happening?

It's when he springs to action that I know we're safe again—for the moment.

"Get her to the hotel," he commands, scrambling for the SUV door. "Do
not
leave her until you hear from me." I jump inside. Luke places my coat on my lap, the gun on top. "Genesis? My escorts will accompany you to your room. I'll be there presently," he promises.

My seat belt is hardly buckled before we're moving—flying down the street.

"What's happening?" I ask as we bounce in and out of some kind of pothole. But no one will speak to me. I slip the gun back into its holster, turn to watch the road behind us—to see if we're being followed.

How did he know about the gun? He didn't even hesitate
.

In minutes, the car pulls along the curb of the hotel, driver climbing out, tossing keys to the valet. The men follow me across the lobby and to the elevator.

"Good evening, Mrs. Fleming," the manager on duty calls.

I force a smile. "Good Evening."

The elevator doors close, the men flanking either side—dark suits and stoic expressions—reflected in platinum.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Don't worry. This is just a precaution," one says.

"I don't believe that."

The door opens and I step onto my floor, moving toward the suite. I search my purse for my room key, men standing behind me, watching as I fumble through its contents, hands shaking.

"You're not coming in," I tell them, shutting the door between us, locking it, flipping the deadbolt—even when I know not a deadbolt on this earth could keep me safe. I strip off my coat, pull the gun out of its holster, remove the magazine. Still fully loaded. Still ready. Still waiting for me. For that perfect moment.

When I turn I hit something—hard. A hand covers my mouth, a cool voice insists: "
Shhh
. Don't say
anything
."

A deep knot jams my throat, rendering me breathless, unable to swallow, to think. Seth's arms wrap around my waist, pulling me tight against his body. His mouth brushes my cheek. I feel his warm breaths. Faster. Faster. Until my eyes close, a rush of warmth consuming me, heart on the verge of exploding.

"
Shhh
," he urges, whispering into my lips. "They'll hear you."

And suddenly he's kissing me, hungry and urgent, driving against me, moving us backward. I'm lost. Thoughts tumbling. A hundred real and imagined moments just like this one pulsing beneath my skin, lonely months melting between us, slipping into nothing—like we were never apart at all.

We stumble into the bathroom. He separates us, turning on lights, the fan, the shower—making as much noise as possible.

"It was you! I saw you—at the restaurant! How did you . . . ?" I hiss, fighting to control my hammering heart, to keep my voice low. "I thought Viola had you!"

His eyes narrow, accusing, the sparkle behind them faded. They're tired. Empty. "After everything we've been through, you actually think I'd just give up? That I wouldn't even put up a fight? I made a
promise
, remember?"

"How was I supposed to . . ."

"I will
always
find a way back to you, Genesis," he interrupts. "
Always
."

I drag my fingertips across his forehead, sweeping hair aside, touch the lines of worry, the blue shading beneath his eyes. His face is thinner. Cheekbones more prominent. My throat constricts, a hard lump thickening with agony.

"What did they do to you?"

"It doesn't matter. We have to get you out of here."

"What?"

"He's marked you," another voice says. Mara. She spins me around. I turn my head toward my reflection, as far as my body will allow, straining to see. It's there. Just below my neck. In the deep "V" of my dress. Between shoulder blades. Black pathways where Luke's finger roamed at dinner. No rhyme, reason, or pattern, just . . . rubbish. And a smear running across the middle, where something else passed through.

"It was inadvertent," she says, touching it gently. "He didn't understand the depth of his feelings. Still."

"What do you mean
still
?" I ask, struggling to keep my tone level.

"Lucien
Castellani
can never love another."

"I don't understand."

"The story is as old as time—a thousand variations told in a hundred languages. Lucien—he was the first of the angels in Heaven to fall. When he left, one-third of the hosts followed—bound for earth, destined for Hell. Part of his punishment was that he could never fall in love with anything—anyone—else. If he did, they would be marked. Eliminated."

Eliminated.

Killed.

"
Shit
. So how does he un-mark me?"

"He can't," Mara says.

Seth extends his hand, revealing fingers—forefinger and middle finger—smudged gray.
 

"You have to leave," she urges. "They're coming for you."

"Who?"

"The Council. All the Warriors of Heaven."

"Are you
kidding
me?" I reply, panic winging through my veins. "They were the ones who asked me to kill Luke in the first place! You're a Warrior. You're in charge. Tell them to stop!"

"The order comes from above me."

"What about Viola? I still have a job to do!"

"It's over, Genesis."

"I can fix this," I assure her. "Whatever Luke's done, it doesn't matter if he's gone. And I think—I mean, I
know
how to do it. It's clear now, after tonight. It's his side. His hip. When we were practicing . . . the hip represents lust, remember? His assistant—Charles—made a comment about how I'm not the first girl to wake up in his penthouse. And others made similar comments. He
admitted
he liked me. And if he marked me, then his weakness is women."