Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One

by Aimee Agresti

  We found our destinations more quickly than we had yesterday and with hardly any wrong turns. Progress. But we were mostly quiet in our travels today. Lance seemed perfectly himself, but I had too much fluttering around madly in my mind to be able to handle actual conversation. And in no time, we were back at the hotel, where it all faced me again.

  Though a placard out front said the gallery was “Temporarily Closed,” my keycard worked in the door now.

  “I guess we’re in,” I said, opening up.

  “What’s this?” Lance crouched, grabbing a slip of hotel-logoed paper that had been slipped under the door. As I walked in, he followed me, reading aloud.

  “‘H & L: up for being guinea pigs? Shepherd’s pie—with wild boar instead of lamb—for lunch, in the Parlor fridge. Bon appétit! Dante.’ I’m starved, which must be the only reason that sounds remotely good.”

  We stopped walking.

  “Whoa,” I said, staring straight ahead at the wall that once displayed Outfit photos. It was entirely blank. Lance’s eyes were still on the note.

  “Wild boar could be gross, I guess,” he said. “I don’t know—” He looked up at last. “They don’t mess around.”

  “It must’ve been pretty bad. I wonder what happened.”

  We stood there, staring at the empty expanse. I couldn’t help but take it at least a little bit personally. I had been so proud of those pictures. And now . . . nothing. Why couldn’t the vandals have gotten to something else? That was a pretty selfish thing to think, but still. Lance seemed to connect the dots leading to my silence.

  “It’s too bad. Maybe it just means they had really good taste in photography.”

  I laughed. “Thanks.” Suddenly, I heard the tapping, soft and muted against the glass. I turned toward the door and saw that man Neil Marlinson standing there, peering in with his hands up for a clearer view. He waved and smiled at me. The show of familiarity didn’t escape Lance’s notice.

  “Who’s that? Your much-older secret boyfriend?”

  “Yep, my sugar daddy. You know how it goes.”

  “I should’ve known. It’s always the quiet ones.”

  “You would know.”

  “Funny. And true.”

  “No, he’s just this guy who came by yesterday to buy the photo of Aurelia,” I explained as we neared the door. “But I guess that’s not gonna happen now.”

  “Shake him down, sell him something else.”

  “You sound like Aurelia.”

  “Really?” He looked impressed with himself.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Lance opened up the door and looked at the man, then walked past him and stood there, hovering for just a moment.

  “Hi. Haven, right?”

  “Hi, Mr. Marlinson.” I looked over his shoulder to Lance. “I’ll catch up with you, go on and get started without me.” He gave a shy wave, walking toward the Parlor for lunch.

  “Sorry to be pounding down the door,” Neil said, polite and mannered, but real, not smooth the way so many of the people here could be.

  “No, don’t be silly,” I said. “I had been meaning to check in with you, but it was sort of a strange morning.” I gestured toward the CLOSED sign.

  “I guess so, from what I’ve gathered.”

  “Yeah. And I’m afraid that photograph isn’t for sale after all now, the one you wanted. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” His voice fell and his eyes clouded over. “That’s too bad.”

  “I’m really sorry.” I paused. “It was somehow damaged or something so I’m afraid we’re not selling it now. But was there anything else you’d seen and liked? The owner would love to give you an excellent deal on something else, anything else.”

  He was silent for what felt like a remarkably long time. Finally, he said, “No, no, that’s all right. I really just wanted that one. It reminded me of someone . . .” He trailed off. “It looked just like her. Just, just like her. You know when you see something and it just sends the memories flooding back?” He said it like he was talking to himself, thinking aloud. I didn’t say a word. Recovering, he shook his head and tried to smile. “I’m sorry, you must think I’m crazy. And old. And too nostalgic for my own good.” He laughed to himself softly. “Thank you for trying.”

  “Sorry,” I offered. I wished I could say something more comforting. “But if you change your mind, please come back.”

  “I will. Thank you.” He walked away with his head hung low, brokenhearted, it seemed. I wasn’t hungry so I returned to my little office and did a search for the clips talking up the hotel—the stories by the writers we’d just delivered gifts to, and got them set in case Aurelia wanted them flashing over the front desk today. Then I uploaded the pictures I’d taken at the Vault. There were even more than I imagined, and so many were good. All these beautiful people having the time of their lives. The ones from within the ring of fire were, of course, the best. That flame gave everyone a lovely pink glow, and through the natural selection at work within the club, they just ended up being the most perfect specimens.

  I selected fifty shots and printed them and then I got to thinking: shouldn’t I just print out a copy of that shot for Mr. Marlinson? It certainly wouldn’t be such a giant, knock-you-out size like the other one or glossy or framed or any of that—but obviously it meant something to him, so maybe I could do that much. It would be a stand-in for the original, the way I had left the Art Institute with a postcard of La Jeune Martyre. Just as I pulled up that photo of Aurelia and hit Print, Lance shuffled back in, dragging his feet, and slunk down onto the chair in the corner.

  “I don’t feel good,” he winced, clutching his stomach.

  I turned around in my seat to face him.

  “No offense, but you don’t look so good. ” His skin had taken on a sickly, sweaty sheen and he had gone ashen. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

  “I feel like I’m going to die.”

  “Was it the boar?”

  “I don’t know. Technically, food poisoning generally takes a bit longer to set in, so I’m not sure what’s going on,” he slurred, squirming in pain. “And it actually tasted really good.” He paused. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

  With my foot, I pushed the small metal trash can over to him. “You should go lie down, I mean, if you can make it back to your room. Do you think you can? I can walk you down.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” Slowly, he inched himself up. “But, are you sure? I know I have to do those photos and everything.”

  “Forget it, it’s okay, really. Go. Please.”

  His eyes were barely open. They looked like mail slots in a front door.

  “Thanks,” he whispered and, hunched over, trudged out of the office. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll do it, promise. If you want to leave it for me . . .” He kept talking even as he clomped away, his heavy footsteps getting fainter as he made it out the door. I kept watching in his direction even after he was long gone, wondering if I should’ve gone with him. It was probably how he’d felt that night when I went to the drugstore. I would be sure to check on him later.

  Back in my office, I took my place at my desk and pulled out a blank sheet of printer paper—it was either this or Aurelia’s stationery, which definitely didn’t seem right. I began scribbling:

  Dear Mr. Marlinson:

  I know it’s not quite the same, but I thought you might like this.

  Yours,

  Haven

  I tucked the note and the printed photo into a manila envelope. I got his room number from the front desk and slid it under his door.

  In search of comfort, I ducked into my room, plucked my cell phone from my bag, grabbed my coat and escaped outside, finding a spot along the cold brick of the side of the hotel. A hiding spot, a place to catch my breath even as the wind knocked it out of me.

  Joan answered immediately, a torrent of excitement and gratitude at hearing my voice. It warmed me in the deep freeze and darkening sky of this l
ate afternoon.

  “Haven, honey! How are you? How was the big opening? I read all about it in the Trib. You’re right in the thick of things there, aren’t you? They covered it on the evening news too! The ladies at the hospital are so excited. So tell me, tell me, how was it?”

  “Yeah, it was fine.” I realized as soon as it came out that it wasn’t nearly gushy enough for her. There was a pause; she was clearly waiting for more.

  “Fine? That’s all I get? C’mon, Hav, let me live vicariously, at least a little, for god’s sake.”

  “No, yeah, I’m sorry. Of course, it was great. My mentor here gave me a pretty flapper dress to wear—”

  “That Aurelia woman? I saw her on TV. She’s gorgeous. These people are unreal, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, a little bit.”

  “So she gave you a dress . . .” She dragged it out, waiting for me to expand.

  “Yeah and she did my hair and makeup and all.”

  “Oh! I do hope you got pictures.”

  I thought about it and had to laugh: it hadn’t even occurred to me to document that night for myself. “You know, I forgot actually. It was a busy night.”

  “Oh well, I’m sure there’ll be other chances.”

  “Sure.” Cars whizzed around the corner, careening past each other; one started honking, and then another answered with one long, loud relentless blare. A steady stream of cabs dropped off the afterwork cocktail crowd and early diners, and spirited away other guests waiting beneath the awning to take them to plays or concerts or elsewhere amid the city’s bright lights. All so exciting. And then there was me—outside for the second time today and yet trapped by some unknown demons, by mysterious threats from a strange book, by the notion that I was some kind of odd entity that had to be controlled. Yet I couldn’t quite permit myself to share any of this with one of the few people in the world who might be capable of making me feel better.

  “Honey, you don’t sound like you. Is everything okay? Is this because it was Valentine’s Day? It’s okay, you’ll have so many years ahead of you filled with incredible Valentine’s Days.”

  “No, that’s not, I mean, I sort of . . .” It was impossible to reduce this to a digestible sound bite, it was all just too complicated. “Never mind.”

  “It’s hard to never mind now.”

  “Try to never mind?” I pleaded.

  “All right, I can tell you don’t want to talk.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Say, do you think you might have time for a lunch one of these days? I could come down, take you out to Water Tower Place or the Cheesecake Factory or something? I miss you, honey.”

  “I know, me too. Maybe soon, okay? It’s just been . . . busy.” I knew if I saw her I would crumble.

  “Okay then, I’ll let it go this time, but I’m going to try again in another couple weeks and I’m not going to take no for an answer then.”

  “Fair enough.” I laughed.

  “I just worry. You sound awfully tired and overworked.”

  “I’m fine, promise. Love you, Joan.”

  “Love you too, dear.”

  On the way back to my room, I stopped into the Parlor kitchen. It was peak time there, cocktail hour. I offered a shy smile to the chefs chopping and sizzling and plating up their precious bits of classy bar food. What I would’ve given to reach over and steal a cone of those logo-shaped crispy french fries, or, rather, frites, as they called them here. But instead, I peeked into the fridge for a quick glimpse of the shepherd’s pie I’d skipped out on earlier. I’d never had shepherd’s pie before but it sure was a funny-looking thing: a layer of saucy meatiness topped with a cloud of mashed potato. Hmmm. Maybe not. I grabbed an apple and bottle of water and pulled down the half-full box of Lucky Charms, then slipped out the back door as quickly and quietly as I’d slipped in.

  I went to Lance’s door and knocked softly. A muffled voice came from within.

  “Huh?”

  “Hey, it’s Haven,” I called. “You okay?”

  The door opened, but his eyes didn’t. He looked like he was still asleep. No glasses, mussed hair sticking up in every direction—messy in a way I didn’t think short hair was capable of being messy. “I’m okay, really, just really knocked out now, but feeling better. Thanks.”

  “Good. Sorry to, uh, wake you. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

  He gave a groggy wave and stumbled back into the dark. I heard the springs of the bed as he hit it.

  When I got the door of my room open, I was just relieved to see nothing on fire. It took so little to make me happy these days.

  20. Charm Her, for God’s Sake

  I changed out of my uniform and into my sweats, prepared to begin my drills downstairs earlier than usual. After devouring my apple and cereal (straight from the box, like some kind of caged beast), I gave a quick glance through the book, that book, just in case there was some new terrifying bit of knowledge it had to impart to me, but I found no new scribblings inside those pages.

  And so down I crept, plank by plank. I could feel my limbs getting stronger, the wooden slats becoming more familiar. I knew where the grooves were, where my fingers could nestle in, and my feet knew how to land as I swooped down or flew up. When I hit bottom, I set my watch and took off at my fastest sprint. My body seemed to be learning the path, committing its curved corners and straightaways to memory. Soon I hoped I would be able to do it without a flashlight if I needed to.

  I came to that bend where it opened out into that dilapidated old room and I stopped short, nearly stumbling onto the ground.

  Sitting there, propped up on the exposed wall beams beside that mysterious locked door, was the most effective stop sign I’d ever seen: the photos. I knew it was them without even being able to actually see them, the whole exhibit shrouded beneath a velvet covering. The silhouettes of those twenty-some rectangles, big and small, bulged beneath the swath. One of the framed corners peeked out, teasing and tempting me. I looked over my shoulder—a reflex, as though I expected someone to be there telling me to mind my own business—and I inched toward it. I grabbed hold of the covering and pulled it back in one sharp flourish, unveiling all of them at once.

  And as soon as I did, I jumped back, reeling, and gasped.

  My eyes skimmed across the surface of these things staring back at me, taking them all in as one cohesive horror show. I wanted to scream but the shock silenced the sound. I had to shake my head and close my eyes to clear my vision. But the sight had been branded into my brain. They had mutated into something terrifying: unraveling, decaying flesh. Photos, it seemed, of a circus freak show, not of the most beautiful people I’d ever met.

  I summoned my strength and crept forward, reaching out to paw through them, hoping that some were unharmed. But, no, every one of the pictures of the Outfit had transformed into something grotesque. This was more than vandalism. These looked like portraits taken of monsters. My hands shook; everything trembled. The horror of it all infected every inch of me. These pictures now showed once-perfect people riddled with festering sores, eyes melting down their faces, bloodied and missing features, amputated and jagged limbs that appeared gnawed off by wild dogs. Some looked as if they’d been run through a meat grinder. Their hair was thin and scraggly or entirely gone and replaced with lesions and bulbous purple and green growths. Their clothing was tattered, and in some cases their entire bodies were ripped open, spilling their internal organs. Lucian’s innards were being feasted upon by a rabid vulture.

  I had combed through the whole mess, each worse than the one before it, before I found Lance’s and Dante’s pictures tucked in back. Lance’s looked just as I’d last seen it: with that scar beneath his eye, but otherwise just fine. In fact, if anything, it seemed overall more ethereal and powerful than it had the night of the gala. His eyes sparkled, deep and peaceful, sure and firm, holding their ground. His stance, the way he held his arms, the set of his shoulders, all appeared stronger. Dante’s photo, on the other hand,
seemed just the slightest bit . . . off. His bright smile had faded in wattage. I didn’t think I was imagining this, or that I was too influenced by our tiff earlier today. His image was dulled. I studied it for a moment and then I set the other photos back in front of it, looking at each one again—much as it made me cringe to do it. But no, I hadn’t missed a thing: mine was not here, and Aurelia’s wasn’t either. Where were they? Had they been spared? Were they not as warped as the others? Or was it possible they were worse? With fast, jittery fingers, I put the covering over the top of all them again and backed up, scrambling and stumbling, watching the mass of velvet there as though it might come after me.

  I turned and sprinted straight back to my ladder, up to civilization. I couldn’t be down there with those disfigured images anymore. Up and up I climbed, clawing at the planks with mad, raw hands, until I made it back to my room. I flung the closet door closed and blocked it off, again with that desk chair, then curled up in my bed, hugging my knees to my chest. I closed my eyes, focusing my beating heart, trying to slow it down to a pace that wouldn’t give me a heart attack. When I finally succeeded, I reached over, pulling that dreaded book from its home in my night table.

  Today’s date had been written in on a fresh page with these words:

  We mustn’t let fear keep us from seeking answers. Go searching. You know where to go. Trust what you see and hear. When something doesn‘t add up to a sensible answer, it simply means you‘re missing some key pieces. Be careful, be smart, but be daring.

  I shut the book and shoved it back in its place. I could take this riddle to mean only one thing: I had to go looking for those two missing photos and I had to go now. I had to go to the place where my gut told me it didn’t want me to be: back up into that passageway that led to Aurelia’s office.