Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One Read online

  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.

  The hours passed without nightmares, without injuries, but I wouldn’t call my slumber peaceful.

  9. That’s Not Quite How I Imagined Paradiso

  The beeping of my alarm, boring into my brain, woke me at seven o’clock. I was shocked to have gotten any sleep. I would have thought last night would have set me on a path toward becoming a true insomniac. But it had seemed that the toll of emotional and physical exhaustion had knocked me out and even my terror couldn’t keep me awake anymore.

  Now that it was morning, I hoped that what I had read last night would feel less grave. I reached for the book on the floor. To my relief, no new writing had accumulated. I showered, washing my hair for the first time in days, and tied it back wet. The scratch on my cheek, I noticed, had dulled to no more than a thin pink blade of grass.

  It didn’t occur to me until I was already seated in Aurelia’s office for our meeting that this may have been something the book had intended for me to skip as per its request to “forgo any engagements” this morning. But that seemed ridiculous, didn’t it? I couldn’t even imagine how I would have gracefully bowed out of anything involving Aurelia.

  One by one, she looked through my stack of photo selections, pausing to consider each—especially the shot of her. I had chosen one of the only ones that had shown any bit of vulnerability at all. Instead of squarely staring down the camera, she was positioned with her chin coyly against one shoulder, her head tilted and her posture almost slouchy. Her gaze came from just left of center. It all gave the illusion of her having a little less control than usual. She lifted her eyes from the photo to me for just a moment, which I read as a positive sign. The only other time she registered any reaction was when she came across my own photo at the bottom of the pile and nodded just once. She handed them back to me.

  “You’ll find a contact in the gallery office for the agency that will be printing and framing these. They have their instructions already. Just e-mail the files and schedu
le the delivery and installation for no later than Monday.”

  “Certainly.”

  “After that, find Lucian. He needs you for a project.”

  My nerves fluttered and I wondered if she could tell. “Of course.” I tried to say it in my most professional, steady voice. “I’ll go right away.” I stepped toward the door.

  “And Haven?”

  I turned around.

  “Lovely work on these.”

  “Thank you.” Her praise was unexpected.

  “I’d like you to take the camera and begin photographing the Vault nightly.” She pressed her lips into a knowing smile. “It seems you’ve already become familiar with the operations there.”

  I left her office, wondering what she’d heard of that first drunken evening. I supposed it didn’t matter since she was giving me the honor of another assignment there.

  I found Lance pacing outside the door to the gallery.

  “Hey,” he said when he saw me walking down the lobby hallway toward him.

  “Hey, what are you doing out here?”

  “I’m supposed to be waiting for Lucian. I guess you and I are working together today—”

  “Yeah. Do you know what we’re doing?”

  “No, because”—he lowered his voice and looked around—“what’s with that guy? He’s so flaky. I’ve spent a total of ten minutes with him all week and then he tells me to meet here at eight o’clock, and, I mean”—he held out his watch—“it’s nine now. I don’t get it.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he’s just really busy.”

  “It’s just frustrating when you don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing. Don’t you get the idea they’re kind of disorganized around here?”

  “Yeah, but what do we know about hotel management, right?”

  “Good point.” He glanced over toward the restaurant.“Hey,” he said, “you know Dante didn’t get back till, like, four this morning?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I bet he wanted to talk.”

  “Yeah, he tried to. That guy has a lot of energy, but I just went back to sleep. He was totally knocked out cold when I got up this morning.”

  “No breakfast for us then, huh?”

  “I know, I’m starved.”

  I checked my watch. “We’ve probably got time . . .”

  We opened nearly every cabinet, scoured every shelf of the pantry, and did a thorough investigation of all of the fridges in the Parlor’s kitchen before settling on the box of Lucky Charms Lance had pulled down from a shelf too high for me to reach.

  “I’m never allowed to have this at home,” he said.

  “Me neither. Too sugary, right?”

  “Yeah.” He sounded disappointed. “Don’t our parents know we’re the only ones in school not drinking and smoking pot? Give us some friggin’ Lucky Charms, man.” He laughed at himself and I did too. I set out two bowls and he filled them both.

  “Tell me about it. I like this wild side of you, Lance. Who knew there was such a rebel under there?” I poured from the tank of milk—everything was giant restaurant economy size—in both the bowls and returned it to the fridge. He took a seat on a stool at an island with a butcher-block top.

  I took a spoonful. “Good stuff.”

  He dunked some of the marshmallows with his spoon, lost in thought. “So, did you ever figure out who gave you that book or whatever?” he prodded lightly, not looking at me.

  “No,” I said, hoping he didn’t notice the quiver in my voice. “Just one of those things, not a big deal.” I wanted to change the subject desperately.

  He set his spoon down and folded his arms on the table, looking at me with steady eyes. He lowered his voice to a whisper, scanning the room in case anyone were to suddenly appear out of nowhere.

  “There’s just, I don’t know, there’s something . . . sort of . . . off about this place.” He searched my face for confirmation. “Maybe it’s just that it’s so empty. Maybe in a couple weeks with people everywhere, it’ll feel normal, but don’t you just get a gut feeling that something isn’t right?” He focused his gaze on his cereal, picked up his spoon again. “I’m probably just being ridiculous.” I could see he wondered if he had gone too far giving voice to these feelings.

  “No, you’re not necessarily being ridiculous.” I tried to hedge and be as noncommittal as possible, but what he had said had filled me with such hope. At least someone else had his eyes open here. Even though I couldn’t tell him all I wanted to, I still felt less alone.

  With still no idea what we were supposed to be doing, Lance went looking for Lucian while I finished up my assignment for Aurelia and checked my e-mail for the first time in days. I wanted to write to Joan. I clicked through my in box and scanned the latest from the college lists I’d signed up for—Northwestern, U. Chicago, Princeton, Harvard, Yale, on and on—and updates from the kids in the pediatric ward at the hospital, whom I wrote back to quickly.

  I had so many messages from Joan, I didn’t think I’d even have time to read them. Instead, I just opened a new message and wrote, Hi Joan. Finally got a chance to check my e-mail and just wanted to tell you things are going great here. I shook my head. Really swell. They’re keeping us busy but we’re learning a lot. Dante says hi. It’s great to have him here. And the other intern, Lance, is a nice guy. My boss is—What to say? She’s the most intimidating woman I’ve ever met and seems to not totally like me for some reason?—a smart businesswoman and gorgeous too, in a soap opera kind of way. Joan would like that; she loved her soaps. She would DVR them every day and we would watch at night—or, rather, she would watch and I would do my homework in the same room and occasionally ooh and aah, making a fuss over plot twists with her. I hope things are going well at the hospital—say hi to everyone for me and tell them I miss them. Love you, Haven. I hit Send. We had been here only a few days, but it felt like forever. The Lexington Hotel seemed strangely cut off from the rest of the world. Maybe that was just because it was such a different universe from what I was used to.

  I was watching the minutes tick by, debating whether to try to sneak away to complete the book’s strange task, when Lance returned with Lucian and the three of us convened in the gallery. The place was still nearly empty—just a few portraits and dreamy landscapes hung on the walls. Inside a glass cube atop a pedestal near the entrance a Tommy gun had appeared overnight.

  “It was said to be Capone’s,” Lucian said when he caught me leaning in to look. It was the nearest I’d ever been to a gun, that was for sure.

  “Is it loaded?” I asked.

  “Depends who’s asking,” was his playful response, before leading us farther.

  We stopped when we reached the gallery’s back wall, which looked like an unfinished page in a coloring book—a very grim and macabre coloring book. A mural stretched across the space, partially painted but entirely sketched as some sort of triptych, three panels in progression. We had seen this area only days earlier and it had been blank except for pencil sketches and a sheet of paper mapping out what it would look like when it was finished. This had to have gone up literally almost overnight.

  Lucian spoke from behind us, letting us study the mammoth artwork.

  “Unfortunately, due to sudden extenuating circumstances, our artist was unable to complete this mural, which we commissioned specially. It’s not an ideal situation, but given our relative time crunch and the fact that the detailed work is largely completed, we would like the two of you to finish it.”

  Both of our heads snapped toward him.

  “I know it seems like a lot of blank canvas here, but if you look closely, you’ll see it’s really just background work you’ll need to do.” He pointed along the sides and signaled in between the figures. It was true: all of the people and key scenes had been painted, but the background landscape—which looked like it would require mostly shades of black and gray and some flourishes of red and orange—had only been starte
d, leaving wide expanses of white to be shaded in. “All of the materials are located in the closet.” He pointed. “I think you’ll find it’ll be easier than you expect. I promise, it’s actually pretty tough to mess up.” He smiled, reassuring us. “I’ll leave you to it, but if there are any questions . . .” He trailed off. His eyes held mine for a second or two, heat rising to my skin, until, hands clasped behind his back, he walked back through the gallery with echoing footsteps and out the door.

  “Well, this’ll be interesting.” Lance scanned the mural, taking it all in.

  “How were you in art class?” I asked.

  “I’m better at art history and theory than practice.”

  “Well, if we make a mess, we’ll call it abstract.”

  We didn’t say a word for a long time. Instead, our eyes skittered up and down across the mural, which took up nearly the entire wall, save a few feet above and below. By my estimate, it had to have been at least ten feet tall and twenty-five feet long. Each of the triptych’s three distinct parts was labeled at the bottom where a scroll had a word painted upon it in an ancient-looking script. A sweeping glance showed a progression from left to right. The first section, labeled Purgatorio on the scroll, was littered with withered men and women in tattered remnants of what looked to be dress of the Middle Ages, all shackled in chains. Some lay, as though dying, on a decaying landscape of dead, brown grass, while others were hunched over about to fall, chained at the waist to bare spindly trees; still others crept on all fours on igneous rock. There was no sky to speak of. All three sections shared variations on the same backdrop consisting of whorls of black and gray—and swaths of white space intended to be completed with mostly more black and gray.

  On the far right, the scene was labeled Paradiso. The figures featured here, robust, hearty ones, reveled in good times, engaging in all manner of lewd and amorous acts, parading around in various states of undress. Yet the backdrop was no idyllic Eden—instead, it was (or rather, it would be, once we finished painting) entirely black rock and black sky, with a body of water the color of dried blood, studded with a few lifeless, floating bodies. Near the top was a silhouette of the skyline of modern-day Chicago engulfed in flames.