I frowned down at my plate. “It could be the opposite, Clover,” I murmured. “It could be the thing that finally kills me.”
“Oh, you are morbid today!” She shuffled forward, still propping the door open with her toe, so she could pat my hand. “You’re just nervous, babes. That baby is not going to kill you.”
“Women die in childbirth all the time.”
“Sweetheart,” she said sternly. “You’re having the baby in Cairns General, with your ER aunt guarding you. You’ve got the best obstetrician in Queensland. You’ve got two unbelievably supportive baby daddies, as well as a mother-in-law who would quite literally tear up Hell if something happened to her grandbaby.”
I choked out a laugh at Clover’s description. It was probably far too accurate. Once I was laughing, I found I couldn’t stop.
“That’s better,” she said fondly. “You just need to snap out of it. Nothing will go wrong.” Her smile was as bright as sunshine. “You’ll be fine.”
There wasn’t any point arguing with her. “Thanks, Clo.”
“Now get your ass into gear,” she clapped her hands at me. “Your break is over. Mine is about to begin. Come and take the reins.”
I got to my feet with a groan. It was getting harder now; the extra weight on my belly made me feel like gravity had kicked up a notch, and I was being pulled towards the earth with a greater force. I dumped the rest of my salad in the scrap bin. “No rest for the wicked,” I sighed, moving past her towards the desk.
“Absolutely none,” Clover agreed, grabbing a yogurt out of the fridge.
It was a slow night. I’d finished all my invoicing, and had already cleared out the inboxes. Now that there were far less demanding guests around, there were also far fewer demands and lists of instructions from frantic PA’s coming through. It had been one of my main jobs on the desk, taking note of everything they said and making sure the information made it to the relevant department. If a lady-in-waiting suddenly remembered that her princess had a seaweed allergy, I was the one that made sure that both the kitchen and the beauty team knew about it.
There weren’t too many high-maintenance guests around anymore. What we did have was a handful of poor guests. Two of which I’d had to stop from trying to do their own laundry.
At least it was work. I didn’t like not being busy. It was nice to have my mind occupied.
The phone rang, and I snatched it up, grateful for the distraction.
“Good evening, Revelations. This is Evangeline. How may I help you?” I issued the standard greeting, slow and polite.
“Good evening, Evangeline.” The voice was deep, smooth, and confident. “I was just calling to check up on a guest there. I tried her direct line, but it seems she’s not in her bungalow.”
“Okay, I’ll see if I can help. Who was the guest, sir?”
“Emma Croxford,” the man replied. “I’m just checking to make sure she’s okay.”
“Oh, Mrs. Croxford!” I exclaimed. The caller was looking out for the poor charity worker. Maybe this was her husband. “She’s doing great," I said. "She was here earlier, we had a good chat.”
“She’s not giving you any trouble?”
“Oh, I can’t confirm that,” I said cheekily. “I had to chase her out of the kitchen at dinner. She was trying to wash her own dishes.”
The man chuckled. “That sounds like something she’d do.”
“Can I pass on a message, sir?” I grabbed my notepad and pencil. “If she’s not answering her direct line, I’d assume she’s asleep.”
“That would be great, thanks, Evangeline,” the man replied. “Tell her that Ted called. Just checking up, making sure she’s having a good time.”
I paused, tapping the pencil on my lip. I was sure Mrs. Croxford told me her husband was named Yuri. She said he was Russian. This guy didn’t sound Russian. He sounded American; confident and easygoing.
“Ted…” I let the question hang in the air, but he didn’t bite. “Can I get your last name, sir?”
“Morrison.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, caught off guard. “It’s you! You’re the one that gave up his vacation for her!” I didn’t mean for it to come out so garbled, but it was such a sweet story. Ted Morrison was the charismatic, billionaire entrepreneur that had donated his very expensive week-long stay, just so Mrs. Croxford could experience it.
He chuckled. “That’s me.”
“Can I just say, Mr. Morrison,” I said. “That was an extraordinary thing you did for Mrs. Croxford.”
“Oh no, it was nothing. I’ve already been to the caves a couple of years back,” Ted Morrison replied smoothly. “I’m not missing anything. And she deserved it.”
“Oh, it’s not nothing.” I was wildly aware that I was overstepping my boundaries, but I felt like he needed to hear it. “It's beyond generous. It's... different, too. You’re different.”
“How so?” His voice sounded even, and slightly playful. I should have shut up, but I didn’t.
“You gave that holiday to her selflessly. You’re not doing it as a PR stunt, or to offset any weird rich-guilt you’ve got going on,” I said, mentally kicking myself for not shutting up. My pregnancy was making me reckless.
Luckily, he laughed. “No, no. I don’t need the kudos. My publicist almost strangled me as it was.”
“Why would your publicist want to strangle you?”
“Coming to Revelations is a tick-box for the boardroom chess game,” he sighed, sounding resigned. “It’s part of my public image, you see, Miss Evangeline.”
I got the impression I’d caught him after a few bourbons, and his tongue was extremely loose. “It’s my persona," he went on. "I’m smooth and confident and extremely rich. I’m you-can’t-touch-me rich.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Sounds like you don’t want to be that.”
“Oh, darlin’, I don’t mind being rich,” he drawled. “You can do a lotta good things being rich. It’s just the frontin' that tires me out.”
“Well,” I said slowly. “You’re a pretty popular guy, Mr. Morrison. I’m no expert, but you always seem to be on the front line of whatever new, crazy thing you entrepreneurs seem to do. The electric cars, and space travel thing, for examples.”
“That’s kind of you, Evangeline.” He was humoring me. “But those are the things I’m interested in. It’s easy to be crazy passionate about things that you’re crazy passionate about.”
“Well, why can’t you be crazy passionate about being a philanthropist? Like,” I said, improvising wildly. “You loved giving Mrs. Croxford this vacation, right? You should get your publicist to leak the story.”
He chuckled. “She will kill me.”
I warmed to my theme. “But then follow with an opinion piece somewhere big, like the New York Times. Write about how you gave the vacation to Mrs. Croxford because she, out of everyone in this world deserves it! Mrs. Croxford gives everything she has to the poor. She’s the most humble, meek woman on the planet. And you gave her something back, but it wasn't money you gave her, because she doesn't need that. You gave her an experience that she would never have dreamed of having. Besides,” I added, a shade sassily, “it’s about time the meek inherit the earth.”
“You know what, little Evangeline,” he mused. “You might be onto something. I got too much stuff anyway. I’ve got a twelve bedroom place on ninety-sixth; I practically live in the kitchen. I’d love to give the place to a shelter, or a halfway house or something. Get a little apartment in the East Village.”
“Well… Why don’t you?”
“I guess we all get scared, little girl,” he sighed, his voice thickening. “We all worry we’re going to lose everything we’ve built. We flaunt our riches, as a way of letting the world know that they’re never going to take them away from us. We’re scared that if we stop flaunting, the vultures will swoop in and grab them.”
“You can’t lose anything when you give it all away, Mr. Morrison.”
There was si
lence. I’d probably gone too far, but I plowed on. “You don’t lose anything. However, you could gain... everything.”
A bead of sweat broke out on my forehead. I’d definitely overstepped every single boundary that Revelations set. The guests were royalty, we were their loyal servants. Yet, here I was, preaching to a billionaire.
After a moment, a chuckle drifted over the phone line. “Have I called the Revelations front desk, or the direct hotline to Heaven? Girl, you got a philosophy that bears repeating.”
“Glad you think so, Mr. Morrison.” I wiped my forehead. “I’ll pass on your message to Mrs. Croxford. It really was a wonderful thing that you did for her.”
“Thank you, Miss Eve. I’ll think a little more on what you’ve said to me.” The phone line clicked, he was gone.
I let out a sharp breath, wondering what the hell had gotten into me. The phone rang as soon as I put it down.
“Hey, Eve.” It was Sally, our resident physiotherapist. “I’m working with Mr. Hallett, and we need a couple of resistance bands from the gym. Could you send someone out?”
Clover bustled through the door at that moment, and I relayed Sally’s message. “You go,” Clover nodded to me. “The porters are all in the dining room, helping move some kitchen stuff around. It’s time for your daily waddle around the block anyway.”
Sighing heavily, I nodded. I had a daily step count to keep up.
I also needed the fresh air, so I waddled out back to the gym building, using the outside path. It was a pitch black night. There was a strange comfort in the hot, humid darkness around me.
I knew that imps were hiding in the trees and flipping themselves around in the vines, even though I couldn’t see them clearly. Every few meters, I thought I saw a tiny, hairy little body do a somersault through the jungle. It felt nice to be watched so unobtrusively. I was also glad that they were having fun while they were doing it.
At least someone was having fun.
The gym was in a separate building on the other side of the main reception hall. There were two paths to it - one internal one through reception, and an outside path that wound around the ancient trees that shadowed reception.
I loved walking past those trees, and I did it whenever I could. I imagined them like ancient grandparents, watching over us. And since most of the guests used the inside path to the gym, I was going to take the road less traveled.
The gym was small, but efficient and functional - A large open plan room with a weight rack down one side, and a big mirror on the other. There were exercise bikes and steppers down the other end, and some multi-purpose equipment, just so we could cover all the bases. It was where I trained with Sally, the on-site physiotherapist.
Ironically, it was always empty. Most of the rich folks either favored aggressive forms of sport, like squash and tennis, or, they were chronically lazy. Or, like Mr. Hallet, they preferred to work out in the privacy of their own bungalows. But we had to have everything, just in case.
Tonight, however, it wasn’t empty. Once I’d gotten past the giant trees outside the main building, I heard strange sounds coming from the gym. My senses tingled. I itched to identify the sound. Now more than ever, I felt like I needed to know exactly what was going on around me.
My quick-waddling steps slowed down a little, and I cocked my head so I could hear better. It sounded like slaps and thuds, and heavy grunts.
The door was closed, but the sounds were unmistakable. Someone was fighting in there.
I paused, listening intently. I could hear the smacks of skin on skin, but no shouting or screams. It clearly wasn’t a serious fight. Whoever it was, they sounded like they were training. With a little rush of relief, I realized it was probably just a sparring session.
I frowned, curious. We didn’t have any guests on-site at the moment that struck me as being fighters. We just had the usual old-world money folks, and of course, the odd smattering of poor charity workers. None of them were particularly fit. The grunts and smacks that I heard from the gym were fast-paced, like a professional boxer hitting a practice pad.
My senses tingled, but I didn’t feel any danger anywhere. I was getting better at identifying the flavor of the energy around me, and this didn’t feel malevolent. The fighters in the gym were only practicing; there was no ill-will in the area.
A particularly loud crack sound came from the gym, then the sound of a body rolling, and a low, muffled oath. Whoever was in there had the doors shut tightly. They were usually left wide open to welcome in the guests.
These fighters wanted their privacy. I was reluctant to go in; it was clear that my appearance would definitely be unwelcome.
But my curiosity overwhelmed me. Once the sounds of sparring started up again, I cracked one of the doors open just a fraction, and peeked in.
The sight absolutely floored me.
Zel and Dale, both bare-chested and dripping with sweat, stood in the middle of the gym. They were sparring each other, fighting in hand-to-hand combat at a ridiculously furious and expert pace.
Dale’s fists moved so fast they were a blur, shooting towards Zel’s head, first in a quick jab to his temple, then cracking a mighty punch into his torso. Absorbing the hard blows like he was made of jello, Zel stepped back. Dropping his center of gravity, he delivered a horrifyingly forceful front kick to Dale’s knee. But it didn’t connect - Dale blocked the kick with his shin, and the resulting crack made my spine shiver horribly.
Dale grinned, jabbed out with his fist twice, feigning, then he spun his whole body around and dropped like a stone in the same second. His leg kicked out in a perfect arc, sweeping Zel off his feet and onto his back. Zel rolled away instantly, flipping to his feet from his back like a grasshopper.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
They circled each other, still in fighting stance, eyes bright and assessing, looking for cracks in each other’s defenses.
“Better,” Zel smiled, not giving an inch. “Your blocks are a step ahead now.”
“You telegraph your kicks like an Amish granddaddy,” Dale grinned back, teasing.
“You’re just learning,” Zel replied, and a tender look came upon his face. “I don’t want to push you too hard.”
“I’m good.” Dale jumped from one foot to the other and shadow-boxed a few punches.
My mouth dropped open further as I watched him. My cuddly, big brother-friend Dale had turned into some sort of Mixed Martial Arts professional.
What. The. Hell. Dale wasn’t a fighter. He wrote Game of Thrones fanfic in his spare time.
Dale was a big guy - at least six-two, and very sturdy-looking with it - but he'd always been a friendly teddy bear type, rather than a dangerous, lethal grizzly. He wasn’t much of a swimmer, so he didn’t often take his shirt off around the pool, but I’d seen him bare-chested before, and he did not look like this.
Now, his long, heavy arms were tight and bulging like tree trunks. What was once soft belly was now ridiculous hard-packed muscle; not cut and precisely defined like Zel’s abdominals, but solid, like he could take a million punches to the gut and not even whimper.
How had I not noticed this transformation? My eyes ran up and down his body, assessing, unbelieving. With a shirt on, I supposed, he would still look the same big, bulky Dale.
His smile hadn’t changed. It was still innocent, genuine, and so, so friendly. My beautiful, soft big brother.
I watched him grin at his lover - fiance - and suddenly I was very, very angry. I kicked the gym door open so hard that it hit the wall on the other side with a bang, and I stomped straight in.
Their fighting stances didn’t change; they just swiveled to face the door and the incoming threat. When they saw it was me, their expressions changed drastically.
Zel’s face was defiant. Dale looked slightly shamefaced.
“Eve!’ Dale called out as I stomped across the gym floor. “I thought you were working. What are you doing away from the desk?”
“Fetch
ing some gear for a guest,” I snarled at him. What in the hell are you doing here, Dale? What has he done to you?” I jabbed a thumb at Zel.
“Now Eve, don’t flip out…” Dale raised both hands, palms up.
“What do you mean, don’t flip out?” My voice raised several octaves. “You went on holiday with a guest for a month, and now you’re suddenly Conor McGregor? What did he do to you, Dale? Was it steroids?”
Dale rolled his eyes. “You know very well it’s not steroids, Eve.”
“I don’t know, Dale. I have no idea what he’s done to you.”
Zel, hands on his hips, butted his head into my line of vision, clearly unhappy with being ignored. “Could you maybe just accept that it was love that did this to him, Chalice?”
I glared at him. “Don’t call me that.” I flicked a quick glance back at Dale, but he didn’t look confused. Only resigned. “Don’t ever call me that again,” I spat back at Zel.
“Don’t blame him, Eve,” Dale pleaded with me. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“So it was something he did to you? What was it, Dale?’
Dale turned and planted his feet firmly, gripping the tops of my arms so he could stare at me directly in the face. “He told me everything,” he said simply.
“Is this about him being ethnic,” I sneered. “And being afraid of the racists?”
“No, Eve. About him being a demon.”
That shut me up. The sneer left my face. “Oh.”
“He told me before we left,” Dale went on quietly. “We’re going to be married, Eve. Of course, he told me everything.”
“He… he what?”
“I didn’t leave anything out, Chalice.” Zel looked smug. “I told him all. About my history in Hell, and on Earth. I told him about my cowardice, about how I fled from the screams of the eternally damned. I told him about you, and that cute little Destroyer of Worlds growing in your belly.”
I wrenched my arms out of Dale’s grip, crossing my hands over my bump self-consciously. “Don’t call him that,” I muttered.
“We have no secrets, Chalice. Dale knows everything.”
I glared at Zel again. He’d put my friend in danger. “You’ve got nothing to hide, huh? So why did you keep this a secret, Frankenfurter?” I sneered, pointing at Dale’s new, ridiculously well-muscled body.
Revelations: The Last War Page 8
