“Thanks.” I didn’t mean to be so evasive. I wanted to talk, but I had no idea what I could get away with. After the drugstore, and Beckett, and everything that happened last night, I didn’t want to go inviting any daily opportunities for death, as the book so kindly warned. So I said nothing.
Finally, Lance gave in and spoke. “So, changing the subject: Who’s George Phillips?” He tried to lighten his voice, as though he knew I needed to be distracted.
I brightened too and made a fake gasp. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. But we’re in love! We’re running away together.” I fluttered my eyelashes.
“Hilarious.” He rolled his eyes.
“Please. Al Capone’s alias when he lived here.”
“Did you get to the part about how he used to see ghosts here? His henchmen thought he was losing it.”
“Yep. Haunted by folks he knew who got killed in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre.” Now that I thought about it, I felt a bit of an odd kinship with Capone. Poor guy had those scars, was tormented by these visions, and no one believed him. Although, he deserved it, didn’t he? I offered my own piece of trivia. “Here’s one: what floor did he live on?”
“Fifth. You’re good.”
“We have to start reading different books so we can actually stump each other.”
“That’s a good idea.” He thought about it. “Then we can compare notes. Okay, we’re officially a study group.”
“Deal.”
Lance and I painted all afternoon, mostly in silence, starting at opposite ends of the mural and working our way in. We decided starting at the top made the most sense. After last night I wasn’t so scared of ladders anymore.
I yawned my way through the day, exhausted and sore, and caught Lance looking over from time to time, no doubt wondering if a person this sleepy should be balancing ten feet in the air and trying to paint. He probably also wondered what had me so tired if I really had gone to bed as early as I’d claimed. But the repetition of the work, painting the same color for hours, this inky black sky, could make anyone at least a little numb. I felt my mind wandering. When it roamed too far—back to that book, to the idea that I would at some point have to go back down the passage in the closet again—I would rein it back in and send it off running in a more pleasant direction, if I could find one. This is what I was doing when I thought I heard my name. I must’ve missed it the first few times he called because when Lucian’s voice finally reached me, Lance just shook his head at me.
“Looking good, guys.” Lucian strolled toward us, hair looser, the way it was at the Vault that first night. He wasn’t in one of his trademark suits either, but wore jeans, a slim V-neck sweater with a button-down shirt underneath, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up: effortless, all of it. Dressed like this, it reinforced how young he seemed. But any way you looked at it, he was out of my league. He stood in the space between our ladders, looking up at us. “Move over, Michelangelo.”
“It’s Bosch, actually,” Lance said, not in a know-it-all way, just putting it out there.
“Back off, Bosch,” Lucian corrected himself.
It took me this long to formulate a greeting. “Hi,” I said at last.
“Hi.” Lucian held on to the side of my ladder with one arm. Lance turned back to his work. “Didn’t want to startle you up there, so—”
“No, not at all.” I smiled down at him.
“Hey, could I . . . ?” He motioned for me.
“Oh . . . yeah, of course,” I said, slowly processing and savoring that he had come in here wanting to talk to me. I focused on stepping down from the ladder as gracefully as possible. If ever there was a moment for poise, this was it. I was a few rungs from the bottom when he held a hand up toward me. I looked at it, smooth and perfect with elegant fingers. I was supposed to grab it and let him guide me down. Shifting, I took his hand and then took the last few steps much too fast, one-two-three, nearly sliding down them and landing with the slightest bounce. It may have just looked like I had a burst of energy and not like I bungled those last few steps, but really I had come painfully close to falling. Even so, Lucian grinned, his blue-laced gray eyes swimming into mine.
He flicked his head toward the doors of the gallery and I followed.
“You guys are doing a nice job,” he said as we walked.
“Thanks.” I could barely look at him. “I think it’s going better than we thought. As long as it doesn’t come out looking like Jackson Pollock it’ll be better than I expected.”
He laughed.
“We just got a couple great pieces in today. I’ll have to show you,” he said. “And supposedly we’re getting one of Capone’s old hats too.” He held the gallery door open for me and I stepped through.
“Well . . . hats off to you.” I smiled.
“Indeed,” he said with that look, the playful one that drank me in. We were outside the gallery now and wandering toward the front of the lobby. We had it all to ourselves. “I heard Aurelia was happy with your photos of the Outfit.”
“Oh? I’m glad.”
“She would never tell you this but she loved the one you took of her. She even called the printer to have them blow it up bigger than she had originally planned.” He paused and then lowered his voice. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Hear what?” I said, playing along.
“Exactly,” he whispered back.
He stopped walking and looked at me. “But I didn’t come by to talk about Aurelia or photos.”
He looked serious. “I feel awful about this, but is there any chance we could reschedule that dinner? Things are getting hectic with the opening so close. I know that’s a terrible excuse but I’m hoping you’ll let me make it up to you?” He looked like he was bracing for me to be upset. What alternate universe had I slipped into that he was trying to convince me to see him? These few minutes were the highlight of my year so far. Or at least, this came in second to my birthday. So, yes, a resounding yes, he was welcome to make it up to me anytime.
“Sure.” I was a little nervous anyway and could use more prep time—this alleged dinner was going to be my first date. Ever. I didn’t count the homecoming dance this past fall with Dante, for obvious reasons. “Totally understand.”
“Thank you.” He was serious, his expression stormy for just a flash. “There’s just . . . a lot going on these days.”
“I imagine. It sounds like the gala is going to be incredible.”
“We hope.”
“It’ll be strange to see this place full of people.”
“I know.” He scanned the lobby, distracted.
“It must feel like you’re about to open up your home and take on, like, three hundred boarders.”
“Yeah, I guess it is like that.”
“What’s your favorite thing about this place?”
“I don’t know, I never thought about it,” he said, eyes away for a moment, as though he were finally giving it some consideration. “You?”
“Me?” It came out before my reasoning faculties had kicked in. I had skidded into some intersection of dream and reality. But, no, slow down—he hadn’t meant me, specifically. “I mean, oh my favorite—hmmm—I like the chandelier.” I pointed toward it. “The way it looks different depending on the time of day. It has personality.”
“I suppose it sort of does, doesn’t it?”
I shrugged, shy again. We had reached the gallery entrance, that curtain shrouding the glass door.
“Well, I guess I can’t let Lance paint that whole thing . . .” My hands fidgeted.
“No, I guess you can’t, can you?” he said. With an outstretched arm, Lucian pulled the velvet curtain back for me to pass, then in one sweeping movement, wrapped it around both of us so we were cocooned in it. His cedar scent made my head spin and my skin bake. I’m sure I couldn’t hide the shock in my face.
“Tell me you forgive me for Friday or I won’t let you go,” he said.
“Now I’m not
sure what the right answer is.”
“Good.” He kissed me quick on the cheek.
Then he spun us out of the curtain. I stumbled toward the gallery door.
“Dinner soon, I promise,” he said.
I nodded, still lightheaded, in the most wonderful way.
He slipped out behind the curtain and was gone.
Lance was still up on the ladder when I glided back in. I had to collect myself before going up. My arms and legs felt like liquid, nothing the least bit sturdy about them. “Important business meeting, Ms. Terra?” he asked, eyes on me for only a second then returning to his work with a smirk.
We painted steadily, with only a short break to make sandwiches at lunchtime (not as good as Dante’s but edible nonetheless), until we could feel the shift of day melting into dusk.
Lance checked his watch and announced, “Quittin’ time. Six o’clock. I think that’s fair, right?”
“Sounds good to me.” I put the finishing touches on a milky gray patch of sky hovering over the bloody lake. Staring at this long enough wouldn’t help with my nightmares.
As we packed everything up, my mind began its transition to my nighttime persona—the scared girl who was a slave to this curious book. My hands were still raw from clawing at those planks last night. My muscles had eased but they didn’t feel ready to go through all of that again.
“So what are you up to tonight?” Lance asked. His hands were full with paint canisters, after reorganizing the shelves of the supply closet, while I rinsed our brushes in the sink.
I had almost forgotten: “I’m supposed to take pictures at the Vault.”
“I’m sure you’ll find plenty of willing subjects.”
“No kidding.” People there certainly didn’t seem shy. Maybe I’d even get to see Dante. Our schedules were so different, I was starting to really miss him. “I do kinda wanna try some of the snacks and things Dante’s been testing out in the club. It beats having to make our own dinner, right? You should come too.”
“You had me at snacks.”
“I figured that would clinch it. I guess maybe eleven again?”
“Works for me.”
I finished with the brushes and then went to collect the camera. I thought I might try to sneak in a nap before my photography duties.
Lance had just finished up and was turning off the light in the storage room.
“I think we’re all set here,” he said. And something occurred to me.
“Question.” I hesitated. “Do you think anyone would mind if I stole one of the ladders, real quick?”
He gave me a funny, what-are-you-up-to look.
“The string broke on that light at the top of my closet. Have you noticed the ceilings are freakishly high?” Probably not, since he’s about six feet tall. “I mean, not for you, but—”
“If you wanted help, you just had to ask.”
“No, I wasn’t—”
“Sure, I know, you have your pride. Let’s go.”
Lance hauled the ladder down the elevator. It was kind of nice to have the help. It would’ve taken me twice as long and I probably wouldn’t have been able to lift it in the first place and if I had then I probably would’ve knocked out a lighting fixture or something along the way. He also insisted on reattaching the string himself. I stood nearby shining the flashlight up at him as his nimble fingers worked.
“I’m impressed you have a flashlight,” he said. “That’s more of a guy thing, to bring something like that.”
“Well, I brought stuffed animals too.”
“Did you really?” He looked down at me.
“No.”
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed now in my lack of girlishness.
“Not that I don’t appreciate this, but just so you know, I could totally do this.” He wasn’t listening.
“How many honors students does it take to change a light bulb—”
I cut him off: “It doesn’t even need to be changed; it’s just the string that—”
“Two. One to do it while the other one argues that she doesn’t need help because she can do everything by herself.”
“I don’t need help,” I said, smiling at my own expense.
“Exactly.”
“But if you want to be macho, then who am I to stand in the way.” I gesticulated with the flashlight.
“Light please. Up here.”
I shined it right at him, blinding him for a moment. He shielded his face. “Yup, thanks.”
I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I just wanted this all wrapped up as quickly as possible. I couldn’t decide whether the book would consider it some sort of violation that I hadn’t repaired this myself. With a click and a twang, the light went on.
“You’re in business,” Lance said, giving the string a couple extra tugs to secure it.
“Thanks.”
“Any other odd jobs?” he asked as he stepped down from the ladder.
“No.” I laughed. “I think that’s it for now, but I’ll let you know. Thanks again.”
“Sure thing.” He breathed on his glasses and cleaned the lenses on his T-shirt. “Dusty up there.” His eyes were bigger without them and a little spacey, since he couldn’t see well. His scar wasn’t so bad at all. Maybe it was selfish for me to think that I liked it because I had three sets of them, but he wore it well. It made my heart ache just a little to know how much it bothered him.
“Yeah, turns out there’s no maid service for our rooms,” I said, with just enough sarcasm.
“I’m still waiting for them to tell us that we’re going to be the maid service.”
“Funny,” I said. “Or, I mean, I hope that ends up being a joke. Between you and me, we’d get fired.”
“At least you started making your bed.”
“Ha-ha.”
“So, eleven.”
“Eleven it is,” I said.
He started to let himself out and then turned back around. “You good till then?” His protective streak setting in.
“I’m fine, just gonna do some reading, hang out.” I thought of the book, thankful it hadn’t been out. But then, it never seemed to be around when anyone was in there, like a shy kitten who hides when the doorbell rings.
He nodded, finding this answer acceptable. “See ya then.”
I waved and thanked him again. He had left the ladder, but no one would need it between now and tomorrow morning, so I just pulled the string and closed the closet door.
It was sloth night at the Vault, which seemed ironic to me since I had been ordered there to work. The two Outfit members at the door—the same girl as always, but no Beckett—waved Lance and me right through, no problem. Since I was on the job, I decided that also meant I didn’t have to go to any extra trouble to wear just the right thing. My jeans and thermal long-sleeved tee would have to do. Besides, without Dante’s styling help, there wasn’t much hope for me anyway. Lance, unsurprisingly, showed up in the same thing he’d had on all day—jeans and a T-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt—even sporting a splatter or two of black paint. He stuck by my side as I roamed the place, snapping shots of the raucous partygoers and randy dancers, and the couples who had retreated into those hollowed-out stalagmite-like structures.
We had managed to orbit the ring of fire a number of times without either one of us suggesting we go up there. Raphaella, I noticed during our second trip around the ring, had latched on to Lance, her eyes following him around the club. I saw him looking up at her from time to time but then he would just as easily turn his gaze elsewhere. I finally stopped in my tracks when I saw that cascade of blond zeroing in once more from her perch. I faced him like I had serious news to tell him.
“Raphaella is totally checking you out again.”
“Really?” He glanced over. There she was.
“Like you didn’t notice,” I teased.
He looked shy.
“Go on.” I flicked my head toward the ring. “Just because she barely talks to me doesn’t mean
she won’t talk to you.” I cringed at the thought of my thwarted attempt to befriend her that first night.
He glanced at the ring of fire, weighing it for just a second. I looked up there too—I’d had one eye on that platform all night long but still no sign of Lucian. The camera had been a good excuse to come around here looking like I had a greater purpose than just finding him. It was actually comforting that he hadn’t shown up—maybe he really did have that much work to do.
“You cool down here?” Lance asked, decision made.
“Totally. I’m just gonna take a few more and then probably head back. Go!” I smiled. “See you tomorrow.”
He nodded and wandered, hands in his pockets, over to that spiral staircase. I watched him bounce up the stairs. Bodies circulated all around me but I felt strangely solitary, a lone tree growing in a completely barren and deserted field. Lance’s presence had become a comfortable and familiar one. We could talk or not, it didn’t matter. It was just easy. I could certainly follow him up there onto that platform. Even if I sat there alone I would have the warmth of all those desirous eyes, all those other people in the room who longed for an invitation up there, knowing nothing of the icy chill or the hierarchy or that Lance and Dante and I didn’t really, truly belong. If we were in the ring, anyone looking in wanted to be us as much as they wanted to be any of the others up there. When you’re on the outside of anything and looking in, there is a tacit understanding that everything on the inside has more value.
I had been standing still, watching too closely for too long, when I felt a playful slap at my arm.
“I haven’t seen you in years, girl!” Dante said, wide grin, when I turned around. He held a tray in the other hand, with a single perfectly fashioned morsel of something.
“Hey!” I squeezed his hand. “You’re looking pretty at home. So this is where you’ve been spending your nights.”
“It’s crazy but I love it.”
“I bet you do. How’s it going?”
“Great! Exhausting, but great. Oooh, you’ve got to try one of these.” He held the tray out to me.
“There’s only one left.”
Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One Page 14
