Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One Read online

  I floated over to Lucian’s image. Stunning, of course, but now that I looked more closely, his eyes looked maybe a little tired—or were they just heavy-lidded in a seductive way? My mind felt jumbled, but I didn’t have much chance for internal debate on this matter.

  A scream pierced the air, instantly shattering the dream-like feeling of the night, making my skin crawl. It wasn’t so unlike the one I’d heard unleashed outside the drugstore that awful evening: a woman, screeching, her shrill cry pealing, an alert.

  My legs took off before I could even tell them where to go or what to do. And instead of running away—as I would have guessed they would, a survivalist impulse taking over—they ran toward that painful wail, careening toward this unknown horror. I pushed my way through the jabbering crowd in the lobby and straight out the revolving door until I stood under the awning and at the front of the pack of gawkers, barely feeling the arctic chill on my exposed skin. On the red carpet outside the hotel was a body. If you could even call it that.

  I knew it was a woman only by the mess of long dark hair and high-heeled boots. Even at the hospital, I had never seen someone so disfigured. She looked scarcely human. Her skin was gray, and every inch of it, from what I could tell, was riddled with bumps and festering sores and gashes. Parts of her looked charred and singed. The worst of it: a hole was burned straight through the right shoulder of her shirt, baring bone and raw flesh and tissue. It looked like something at the meat counter of the supermarket. I had to look away, suppressing the urge to faint.

  No one seemed to be doing anything, myself included. In these few long minutes since that scream, everyone just stood back, huddling and silent and terrified. But then from the back of this mass of people came the sound of one person clapping. Aurelia strode straight through the doors, a path clearing for her, her delicate hands clapping precisely, creating a wave of applause, everyone slowly joining in. She took a place directly under the heat lamp in front of the revolving door—the body crumpled behind her—and addressed the group with her smile.

  “We hope you’ve enjoyed the night and the show,” her voice rang out, and she gestured with an outstretched arm toward the figure on the ground. On cue, four men in hotel uniforms—members of the Outfit, Beckett among them—swirled through the revolving doors and fanned out around the body, lifting it up, each taking a brittle limb, and carrying it—her—off through the side doorway.

  Aurelia continued, commanding the crowd: “Thank you for celebrating our opening with us. We look forward to serving you. Good night, all!” Wild cheers erupted from the group. She charged through the merry masses.

  With that, everyone went their separate directions, either up to their posh rooms or out to claim their valet-parked cars or off to swoop into waiting cabs and limos. Smiles returned to faces, chatter resumed with snippets of conversation wafting here and there praising the night. “A shootout would’ve been more appropriate, but this is certainly bold and artistic,” said one stuffy society type in an emerald evening gown.

  “That looked so real!” gushed a flapper-costumed girl.

  “Performance art: very edgy,” concurred an older gentleman in incredibly baggy, suspendered plaid pants, which I recognized from one of my books as the clownish “Oxford bags” of the 1920s.

  I just stood there as the crowd began to dissipate, trying to quietly wrest control of my wild emotions, which had shot from one extreme (bliss) to the other (fear) and back to somewhere in the middle (so everything’s okay after all?) in such a short span of time that I felt wholly spent.

  When the bristling cold became too much, I went back inside. Some people were still sipping nightcaps in the Parlor and taking midnight snacks at Capone. I waded through the sea of people, adrift, looking for signs of anyone I knew—Dante, Lance, Lucian—hoping to not have to be alone. But after a good half hour of searching, as men loosened their ties and women let their hair down and took their shoes off and more and more guests drifted wearily off to their rooms, I finally did the same.

  Part Two

  15. Be Cool, Please

  The hotel felt different the next morning. Even though I was up much earlier than many of the guests, a current pulsed in the air, a sense that there were people everywhere, whether you saw them or not. I was putting on a show, playing the role of the perfect, helpful staffer. But the place would have felt different even if it wasn’t our first full day open—because I felt different. I hadn’t quite done my hair just right, and without Aurelia’s supplies, my makeup regimen was back to being nonexistent, and I didn’t fill out the uniform any more than I had the day before. What had changed was I felt wanted. Even if last night had been a fluke, even if that was the first and last kiss I would have with Lucian, for those minutes I had been desired, and there was a power in that. I just wanted any sign that last night had actually happened.

  In accordance with our new post-opening set of rules, I avoided the main lobby and slipped into the back door of the Parlor’s kitchen even though the restaurant had to be pretty empty now, at just after seven in the morning. The butcher-block island in the kitchen’s back alcove was set for three, and a familiar figure stood at the stove in his chef’s jacket, with a bandana tying back his hair. He picked up the omelette pan and gave it a shake and then a flip. As it is with a tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear it, I had always wondered if he bothered with that kind of cooking showmanship when he didn’t know someone was watching. I loved that he did—that was so very Dante.

  “Please tell me that’s broccoli and cheddar and that I can have some,” I said to his back. He turned around.

  “Hey, you!” He smiled, pan still in his hand. “Yes and yes, of course.”

  “You’re too good to me. I’ve gotta repay you one of these days.”

  “I know, I’m gonna start kicking this, quid pro quo style, and then you’ll be in trouble. What can you offer me? You’re definitely no cook,” he joked.

  “I know. I’ve got nothin’. But I did take a nice photo of you that everyone seemed to admire last night.”

  “True. I’ll make you send that home to Mom.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “That’s a start.”

  I propped myself up against the counter nearest him while he focused his attention on a second omelette, sprinkling in bits of ham, cheese, green pepper, and onion.

  “And . . . I can offer you a little gossip, which I know you’re always a fan of.”

  He looked at me, intrigued, folding his arms against his chest. “I’m listenin’.”

  “He kissed me,” I whispered, bewildered. It was strange to say it out loud.

  “Who?” He seemed to truly not know.

  “Who?!”

  Now he got it.

  “Seriously?” He sounded skeptical and paused mid-omelette flip.

  I nodded.

  “How the heck did this happen?”

  “I know, right?” I suddenly had to sit down. I took a seat on one of the stools at the butcher block.

  “Oh! First kiss! My baby is growing up.” He clapped and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. “Better late than never, girl!” Now I was embarrassed. I rolled my eyes but secretly appreciated the fuss. “So, set the scene, what’s the story?” He leaned over the island, neglecting our still-cooking breakfast. “I heard you looked a-maz-ing last night, by the way.”

  “You did?”

  “Lance told me.”

  “Oh.” I smiled to myself. That was sweet of him.

  “But wait.” Dante was shaking his head. “So, what? I mean, how?”

  “Well, I saw Lucian in the gallery and he saw me . . .”

  “Sorry, no, I need the CliffsNotes—just the action, not all the meaningful glances. Etan’s got me on a short leash—not that I mind, LOVE him!—but I’ve got, like, five minutes.” He made that twirling motion with his hand, telling me to wrap it up. So I obliged, giving him the most basic play-by-play as he soaked up every word. Until I began to smell smo
ke.

  I poked him in the arm. “I think something’s burning.”

  “Damn right something’s burning. I mean, you’ve clearly got this smoldering thing with him and he kisses you but then—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “Something’s burning.” I pointed to the stove and rushed over to it. The broccoli and cheddar omelette was beginning to char.

  “Oh please, like I would trust you to rescue this.” Dante, unconcerned, nudged me out of the way, as he sauntered over to the stove and plated my omelette. “Do you want a new one? It’s a little crispy.”

  “I like crispy.”

  “Then you’ll love this.” He slid it over to me, then set to work making another. I tucked into my breakfast—inside the cheese was perfectly gooey.

  “This is amazing. You should patent this technique.”

  “It’s called negligence.”

  “It’s brilliant. Four stars.”

  “But back to you and Lucian.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “So? Your analysis, please—why do you think he disappeared right after we kissed?”

  “Hmmm, I don’t know,” he said carefully. “I mean, it could be purely practical—maybe he needed to go flip some circuit breakers or something.”

  “I guess.”

  “Or it could be some sort of game, a hard-to-get thing.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I didn’t like that possibility.

  “Or maybe it was him being theatrical, like that bizarre scene out front with that, like, dummy or mannequin or woman with a horrific makeup job or whatever.” He sprinkled peppers, cheese, and broccoli into his new omelette.

  “Yeah, what was that about?”

  “No idea. It was weird, right? I was standing way in the back, but it seemed pretty strange where I was.”

  “Yep, it was weird up front too.”

  “Huh.” He slid the second omelette onto a plate and set it down at the place beside me. “Guess maybe our sense of artistry isn’t as developed as it should be.”

  “Guess so, because I was kind of freaked out by the whole thing.” When I should’ve been dreaming of the more pleasant aspects of the evening, I had instead found that image searing into my mindscape again and again. Dante, however, steered us back to safer territory.

  “So . . . Lucian. Have you seen him today?” He said it with a devious glint in his eye.

  “Not yet.” I breathed in, nervous.

  “Be cool, please,” he admonished me, flipping the final omelette.

  “Of course. How else would I be?” I couldn’t even say it with a straight face.

  He slapped me gently on the arm with the spatula.

  “Cool,” I said. “Got it.”

  “And not to be a buzzkill—” he started, easing in. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say. “But I thought he mighta, kinda, sorta had something going with Aurelia?”

  I had managed to push this to the back of my mind and it had only begun creeping back; the kiss knocked all logic out of me. “Yeeeah, that’s a good point. I don’t really know. Tryin’ not to think about that. I just know that he kissed me so I kissed him back.” I shrugged.

  “And for that, you’re my hero. Proud of you, girl!” He patted me on the back and gave me a shake.

  Lance appeared in the doorway, dapper in his uniform but yawning and scratching his head. “Morning,” he said mid-yawn.

  “Uh-oh, we have to stop talking about Lance now,” Dante said in a loud voice.

  “He’s kidding,” I said.

  “That’s for you, man. You seem like a western omelette type, am I right?” Dante said.

  “Thanks, wow, looks great.”

  “Late night?” I asked, realizing I had last seen him with Raphaella.

  “I guess so,” he mumbled, digging into his meal.

  “Do tell!” Dante perked up, taking the seat across from him, a plate with his own omelette in hand.

  “Nothing to tell, just worn-out from everything yesterday.”

  “Haven’s been regaling us with tales of her rendezvous with Lucian.” Dante’s eyebrows fluttered.

  Now I got shy. “No, it’s really no big deal. You looked like you were having fun with Raphaella.”

  “Yeah,” he said. And that was it. He wasn’t much of a sharer when it came to that stuff. I let it go. “So what’s the story today? What are we supposed to do now that this place is actually open?”

  Breakfast out of the way, I took a deep breath and knocked on Aurelia’s office door. A faint, uninterested “Yes?” came from inside. I poked my head in. “Come, come, we have to make this quick,” she said.

  “Good morning, Aur—”

  She cut me off, talking to me before I even reached her desk. I scurried in and took my usual seat, already feeling behind.

  “We’ve gotten phenomenal press from last night.”

  “It was really an incredible night. And I can’t thank you enough for—”

  She cut me off again.

  “I want you to amass our media clippings each morning and e-mail them to me.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Since we want to encourage this kind of notoriety, I’ll be giving you a list like this one”—she held out a few sheets of paper for me to take—“of members of the press who’ve said nice things and you and/or Lucian’s boy . . .”

  “Lance.”

  “Yes, you and Lance will hand-deliver notes and small gifts. Consult with Etan’s boy . . .”

  “Dante.”

  “Yes, Dante, he’ll have the gifts,” she continued, waving another sheet of paper at me. “This is the note you’ll be writing. On these.” She handed over a stack of notecards bearing her name and envelopes with the Lexington as the return address. “Learn to do my signature.”

  “Got it.”

  “Now that we’re open we need to be making news every day. We need these people coming back and we need to advance the story. Let’s look for ways to do that.”

  “Okay.” Advance the story, I liked that. That’s what I needed—to figure out how to advance the story with Lucian. But first I had to refocus here.

  “The office in the gallery is your official workspace. Keep an ear out when you’re there. Everything is for sale for the right price and if someone comes in bidding on any of the art or memorabilia, I want to know.”

  “Okay.”

  “Any questions?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good.” Her eyes returned to some paperwork on her desk, which I took as my cue to escape. And I had almost made it out when she said, “Am I wrong or are you supposed to have something for me?”

  I halted and turned around slowly.

  “No, you’re not wrong.” I wanted to say this without it sounding like a pathetic apology. “Due to some . . . technical difficulties and . . . lighting issues . . .” I started. She had to remember sending me off to the Vault just shortly before the blackout cleared the club. But still she watched me, smirking, finding this a fun game to see if I could get through this without squirming or groveling. “ . . . I was unable to complete the task last night. But I fully intend to remedy this and have photos of the Vault for you tomorrow.”

  “I’m disappointed, as you can imagine,” she said stiffly, sighing. “For now have Lucian’s boy load the Tribune and Sun-Times stories to the monitor at the front desk. I’d like your photos tomorrow.”

  “Of course.”

  “Go.”

  That, it seemed to me, was as clean a getaway as I could’ve hoped to make. It certainly could’ve been worse.

  It took me a while to find Lance—he had been wandering the premises, fruitlessly looking for Lucian, and he was relieved when I told him he could call off his search because I had his assignment.

  “I’m a little annoyed that my deadbeat mentor seems intent on dumping me every day,” he said as we made our way through the lobby, which was now bustling with early risers seeking breakfast
at Capone.

  “I think he’s just really busy.” I defended him. But truth was, I was disappointed that no one had heard from him today. Somehow, in the hours since that kiss, I had gone from certainty that he was interested in me to trying to brace myself for the inevitable decline.

  “Whatever. I get a weird vibe from that guy.” He gave me a look, like the reproachful one of last night.

  I ignored it and swiped my keycard to get us into the gallery. “So do we leave this open now so people can come in?” I asked him, changing the subject.

  “It’s strange having people everywhere. I feel like someone dropped an ant farm and all the ants are getting into everything.”

  “I know what you mean. I guess we’re not the most natural hosts, are we?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Okay, let’s be welcoming and leave it open,” I decided. I propped the door wide open and pulled back the curtain.

  We found those newspaper stories, and many more, online. So many pictures of Aurelia and Lucian and the Outfit; endless shots of partygoers drinking and dancing. We even spotted Dante’s arm in one photo, holding out a tray of canapés (I could tell by the uniform and the watch). Lance ducked out to tend to the business of uploading the clips onto the screen, a fairly easy task but one I didn’t envy since it involved commandeering a computer from one of the icy Outfit members working the front desk. They still weren’t much for small talk, these people. If Raphaella was there, it would be a different story though, wouldn’t it? I didn’t know why he never wanted to talk about her. I would think most boys getting attention from a bombshell of that caliber would be all too pleased to brag about it at every opportunity.

  At any rate, for a few minutes the little office was all mine. I examined the note Aurelia had written in her elegant, long-looped script. It would take some doing to replicate. I studied the curve of her letters, the skinny loop of her A, the giraffe necks of her lowercase l’s, the precise slant of each word. I pulled a sheet of paper from the printer for a practice run and told myself what I always did: it’s okay to take your time if it means you’ll get it right. I liked being tucked away like this, having my own place to get things done, where I could feel free to go at my own pace. Somewhere that was considered mine, enough that others felt compelled to knock if they dropped by.