Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One Read online

  The Outfit members adhered so firmly to the schedule that by two o’clock I had finished the last session. It was Beckett, the doorman from last night with the shoes Dante had loved so much. I had never seen arms like that so close up—rippled and straining the short sleeves of his shirt. He had just left and I began flipping through a few of the photos on the camera to see what I got—so far, so good—when Dante burst through the door.

  “I’m ready for my close-up, darling,” he announced, bowing as he entered. “But you’ve got to get rid of this bad boy in retouching.” He pointed to a minuscule zit on his chin. I just shook my head, laughing.

  ***

  Afterward, Dante, Lance, and I decided another leisurely lunch was in order and took our table in the Parlor for grilled cheese and fries, intended as a cure for my hangover. My appetite was finally returning.

  “I hear my boss comes back tomorrow, so we’d better do this while we can,” Dante told us, his voice tinged with a nervousness I wasn’t used to hearing.

  We finished up and Lance changed into his white T-shirt and met me back in the studio. He knocked, to be polite.

  “Hey, all set?” I waved him in.

  “I think so. Didn’t realize we were going to be part of the decoration around here.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I’m as thrilled as you are.”

  “That’s good to hear.” A few seconds of silence passed. He didn’t budge from the doorway. “So what do I do?”

  I pointed at the setup in front of the camera. “You can sit or stand or anything and I’ll just snap a few and we’ll call it a day. Sound okay?”

  “Sure. So, like, stand here?” He took his place beside the stool, moving as if his slim arms and legs didn’t have any joints.

  “Perfect.”

  He stood in that pose I’d seen him strike so often, with his hands plunged in his pockets, slouching. He smiled only slightly and he didn’t move an inch. I snapped a few shots and then noticed a problem: not only did his glasses cast a shadow on his face, they also reflected the light in a way I knew I wasn’t skilled enough to fix. Not that I wanted to let on.

  “Great!” I coached. “We’re almost done. I feel like I should get a couple without your glasses.” He tensed up, his arms straightening as he took a step back. “It’s just that,” I spoke softly in case anyone was in earshot, “I sometimes have trouble with glare, and Aurelia will kill me if this comes back with flashes of light where your eyes should be.”

  He eased. “That wouldn’t be so bad; it would just be a little more in the vein of modern art, right?” he joked—I think.

  “True . . . but I don’t think we’re going for avant-garde here.”

  “Well, in that case.” He took them off, blinking a few times to adjust and then hooked his frames so they hung on the V of his shirt. He looked in my general direction but not quite at me. He put one hand in his pocket and awkwardly held that forearm with the other; he was ready for this to be over. I centered my shot and, for the first time, noticed a slim line the length of a stick of gum just under his right eye where the bottom of his glasses usually hit. After several minutes of snapping, I looked up from the camera and nodded.

  “Good enough?” he asked.

  “Yes, definitely.”

  He smiled shyly, putting his glasses back on. He looked at me and then away. “Thanks. I guess, I’ll . . .” He pointed to the door, already walking away.

  “Sure, see you later.” I gave him a wave and he slipped out.

  Alone for the first time all day, I couldn’t stifle my yawns anymore. But there was still work to be done. I uploaded the photos in the office, then changed into that tank top. I found the fancy remote control for the camera and settled Indian-style in a spot on the hard white floor. If I didn’t move much, I could keep my scar from peeking out of the scooping neckline. I held my smile, hit the button, and heard the faintest of clicks.

  I didn’t hear the soft knock at the unlocked door.

  “Hello?” A voice called out to me before I saw where it was coming from.

  I hit the button again as I fumbled in surprise and the shutter sounded its click-click, snapping a few last shots.

  Lucian appeared in the space behind the camera.

  “So sorry to interrupt,” he said in that honeyed voice, rich and deep. “I can come back later, whenever you want me.”

  “No, hi, um, not at all. I was just finishing up.” I lunged for my sweater, pulling it on, then smoothed out my staticky hair and scrambled to my feet. “So, yeah, let’s, um, switch places. You should be over here, in the spotlight and everything.” My thoughts weren’t quite making it out in full sentences. “This’ll be fast. I’m sure you’re busy.” I adjusted the camera, angling it to properly frame him.

  He milled around near the stool, loosening his tie, and looked at me. “What do you think: is the tie too much for this? Too stuffy?” He crinkled his face, like a kid who didn’t like what was being served for dinner.

  I was so flattered to have my opinion sought, I just stared at first, but then I really looked, studying him piece by piece.

  “Well, there’s definitely no wrong answer,” I reasoned aloud, perhaps too candidly. “It’s all degrees of good. Maybe compromise—untie it but leave it sort of hanging there?” It came out like a question even though I had meant it as a statement. I took a step forward, thinking that this should be the part where I loosen his tie, right? Dante would say, “Of course, fool, what are you waiting for?” But I could only take that one step. Lucian waited for a moment, as though that convergence of time and space had been an invitation, and then finally he untied it himself. He took a seat on the stool, one foot on the ground, the other perched on one of the rungs. “Okay, um, smile,” I said.

  “Whatever you say.” He grinned for a second and then his face settled, not on a pose, but rather he just sat there watching me. I snapped, letting the clicks and the shots accumulate. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

  “So will I see you at the Vault tonight?” he asked, as though for

  getting entirely that he was supposed to be posing.

  I glanced up. “Um, I don’t really know.” And then back at the camera again. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

  “Ohhh, is that right?” He said it as if I was purposely being cagey and just wanted to be convinced.

  “I’m still sort of recovering from last night,” I admitted.

  “That’s the sign of a good birthday,” he said, his eyes twinkling. I kept snapping even though I imagined nearly every single one of the photos I’d already taken would have been worthy of display.

  “Well, then, I suppose I had a great one.”

  “True or false: I heard you needed an escort back to your room,” he said, teasing me.

  “I’m going to plead the fifth on that,” I said shyly. He laughed again, which, for some reason, made me blush.

  “Wouldn’t want to make you incriminate yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then it occurred to me: “And if you wouldn’t mind maybe not telling Aurelia . . .” No need for news of my tipsiness to go any further.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, in all seriousness.

  “Thanks.” I breathed a little sigh of relief. “I don’t know what you people put in those drinks.”

  “For the record, everything should’ve burned off.”

  “Well, then I guess it was some kind of immaculate intoxication.” I fiddled again with the camera.

  “You’re funny,” he said sincerely.

  “Thanks.” I was pretty sure I was blushing again. It seemed I was flirting, unexpectedly, and doing a decent job of it. Good work, Haven.

  “So what do you think?” He got up from the stool and walked toward me. I snapped one more picture before he got too close.

  “Oh. Yeah, we’re all set here, thanks.”

  “No, I mean, the Vault tonight? Or, okay, I sense you’re somewhat reluctant to return to the scene of the crime.” He was making fun of me, but sweetly e
nough that I didn’t take offense. I smiled and shook my head. “So, if I were to stop by your room later, on my way to grab a different drink, like, say, a coffee, what are the odds you might be around?”

  “I’d say . . . pretty good.” Dante would love this.

  “I’d say that’s a pretty good answer.” He started retying his tie. “Thanks for this. Look forward to seeing the picture. Hope it turns out okay.”

  “Yeah, you’re a real tough subject. It’ll probably be just hideous. Lots of retouching.” He let out a little laugh. “See you later, then.”

  As soon as he stepped out the door, I realized I’d barely been breathing for the past several minutes. My chest fluttered inside, inflating to full capacity finally.

  My work done for the day, I decided to catch up on some personal business: calling Joan at last. I couldn’t get cell reception anywhere in my room or the entire lobby, so I found my way outside. The bitter cold chilled me instantly, blasting through the knit of my sweater to my skin. Once outside, my Calls Received box appeared: seven missed calls from Joan. Seven. That was actually fewer than I expected. I wrapped my sweater more tightly around my body, hugging it to me, dialed fast, and then pulled the sleeves over my hands.

  Joan answered before the first ring was completed and wanted to hear everything. I told her an edited version of my birthday celebration and answered all the typical questions about whether I was eating enough (yes) or working too hard (no) or ready for her to come visit (not yet). Even though I rolled my eyes at each question, it was nice to be checked on. I missed her.

  That task completed, I retreated to my room. My eyes were just fluttering shut, a catnap in my grasp, when three quick knocks rattled the door. I flipped the light on and shook the life back into my head, perking up. A peek through the peephole showed Lance there, hands dug into his pocket, something tucked under his arm. He pushed his glasses higher up on his nose and rocked back and forth on his feet. I glanced in the mirror quickly, smoothed out my knotted hair, and opened the door.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. Sorry to bother you,” he said.

  “No, not at all. I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s off-duty for the day.”

  “Nope, I packed it in too. Hard to tell when the day is supposed to be over, right? Without, you know, a bell going off.”

  “Yeah. Maybe we can have Dante run around with his bell every day at a certain time.”

  “That’s an idea. Or, you know, our bosses could tell us or something.”

  “Yeah, that would be helpful too.” He laughed at this. I decided to ask what I’d been wondering: “So what’s he like anyway? Lucian?” I felt my heart pick up its pace. What would I have done if I had been paired with him as my mentor? I probably would have been too nervous to focus on anything resembling work.

  “I guess I don’t really know,” Lance said, after giving the question some thought. “He seems okay. So far, he just gives me stuff to do then disappears all day to do more important things and never comes back.”

  I nodded. “Aurelia is the same way.”

  We were quiet for a moment. And then Lance shook his head, remembering. “Oh, so I found this one today and it’s a really good one; thought you’d like it too.” He held out a tattered book, the title on its worn, dusty cover: Secret Chicago.

  “Cool, thanks.” I took it, flipping it over to read the back. “Are you sure you don’t want to read it first?”

  “I skimmed through a little. Get this, there used to be tons of secret tunnels running under all these buildings right around here. They would pass booze back and forth during Prohibition.”

  “Seriously?” I fanned through the pages.

  “I know, crazy stuff. You’ll see.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Sure thing.” He started backing away. We traded smiles and he waved. “Later.”

  I watched until he got swallowed up into his room. He was awkward but cute, which, I imagined, was probably something people said about me, if I was lucky. They also described me as awkward, undeniably, but hopefully cute too.

  Dante came by as soon as he was finished for the day and, of course, he was thrilled with my coffee date news. He even rigged up a date-worthy ensemble for me, basically consisting of my photo shoot attire and one of his ties as a sort of belt. And then he gave me the necessary pep talk.

  “So, what’s your opening line?” he asked, as he tied his silky pink tie around my waist.

  “Opening line?”

  “Tonight, what’s your line?” He paused, looking up at me, frustrated with my lack of preparation.

  “Um. Do I need one?”

  “Helloooo, yes.”

  “Well, I dunno. I thought just getting to, like, hang out was a good start. And then, you know, I’ll just see what he says, and—”

  “Girl, you gotta have some game. That’s why we have to think about these things. We can’t have you missing key opportunities to loosen his tie—”

  “Right. Got it.”

  “Consider this tie”—he yanked on my makeshift belt—“a subliminal message to him, and also a reminder to you, to act!”

  He put me in front of the mirror. I had been dubious at first, but he insisted the outfit would work and in the end, I had to admit, it didn’t look half bad.

  We plopped on the bed.

  “So he didn’t say when?” Dante asked, for the millionth time.

  “No!”

  “Okay, okay, sorry, just checking.”

  We spent the rest of the evening chatting and waiting . . . and waiting and waiting for a knock at the door. Finally, as we took turns yawning and dozing off, we decided to throw in the towel at eleven o’clock.

  “Dan, I’m such a total cliché,” I grumbled through a yawn. “I can’t believe I’m that girl, sitting around waiting for a guy to show up. I hate myself. I’m a girl I would make fun of right now.”

  “Well, yeah. But this is a first-time offense. And look at the bright side—it’s definitely a step in the right direction. If you’re gonna be stuck waiting for some guy to show up, it might as well be a superhot one. I’m superjealous, if it’s any consolation. I can’t even get stood up these days. I need a crush object.” His voice lost a bit of its luster, his eyes cast down.

  “You’ll get one, I promise. And in the meantime at least you don’t have to feel like an idiot like I do.”

  “It happens. Your plans weren’t exactly written in stone. Maybe there’s an explanation. But next time it’s gonna be him waiting for you.”

  “I love you, Dante, you big fat liar.”

  “I’m so not fat.” He kissed me on the forehead. “Night, Hav. Promise no sulking, okay? His loss.”

  I sighed. “Thanks. Night. I owe you one.”

  “I’ll cash in, don’t worry.”

  I changed into the beat-up old aquamarine scrubs I used as pajamas and curled up in bed with the book Lance had loaned me, hoping to take my mind off the world’s most anticlimactic night. I skimmed through the chapter titles until I found the one he had mentioned about the passageways snaking beneath the buildings around this part of the city. There was supposedly at one time a whole network of them under the hotel and somewhere among them Capone had had a vault thought to be stocked with cash and assorted treasures. But only a few pages in and I already felt my eyelids tugging downward. I fought it as best I could but I knew it was a battle I would lose and eventually gave in to sleep.

  But not for long.

  7. Everything Sinful Is Glamorous

  I awakened in the night. A thud, shattering the quiet, breaking me out of my dizzy slumber. The sound felt like it hit me in the head, echoing at my temple. I shot up in bed, soaked in a cold sweat, and my hand fumbled for the bedside lamp. Panting, with my throbbing head—wet hair matted against it—in my hands and my chest pounding, I tried to regain control. My eyes worked to adjust to the dim light but failed, a smoky haze coating the room.

  I had dreamt that I was in my bed and
heard a thump, and then the slow scratch of friction as something was being dragged down the hallway. A thump and then the dragging again. Over and over. And then a BANG-BANG-BANG rattling my door. In my dream I had gone to the door and opened it—something I couldn’t imagine doing in real life—but there had been nothing there, even though the thumps and the dragging sounds continued. Sitting up in bed, I thought I could still hear it. It had to be in my mind. My shoulders ached, and those two scars on my back felt like I had been branded with hot pokers. My cheek burned, like something had slashed at it. I felt something wet and sticky against my fingertips. Blood.

  I ran into the bathroom and dabbed at the wound, cleaning it off. Underneath the ruddy smear, it wasn’t bad; just a slim gash no more than an inch or two across the fleshy apple of my right cheek. Once I rinsed the blood away, there was barely anything there. From the shape of it, I couldn’t tell exactly what had done it: maybe my nails? But they were so short. I pulled out the antiseptic and Band-Aids that Joan had packed in my first-aid kit—a nurse never lets her kid go anywhere without one. I pressed the bandage firmly over the injury and took in my full reflection. I was quite a sight: dirty, sweaty hair, ratty scrubs, the beautiful, wholly incongruous necklace, and now this ridiculous Band-Aid across my cheek.

  I crawled back into bed and checked the clock—4:47 in the morning. I switched off the lamp and laid my wounded head on the pillow. My body curled into the fetal position, settling into a tight ball, when something hard and pointy jabbed into my rib cage. My hand flew for the light again, nearly knocking it off the nightstand in the process. I sprung up on my feet, then crouched in bed and pulled back the covers, as though expecting something to leap out at me.

  The book lay there, open and upside down.

  Not the book I’d been reading on Chicago history, but the other one, the empty black journal that Lance had found labeled with my name. I picked it up and fanned the pages again. They flew by like so many milky wings.