It was Neil Marlinson. His right arm hung down from the stretcher. His pale, dead fingers gripped the corner of a charred piece of paper. I knew, even from so many feet away, that this had to be Aurelia’s note. One of the paramedics threw the sheet over his head and stuffed his arm back underneath. I backed away slowly, my hand to my mouth, trying to hold in my cries. Faster and faster I walked until I was running back to the gallery.
I sat in the corner of the office, on the floor, my back against the wall. But I could still hear the sirens. A dread set in, a feeling of failed responsibility I couldn’t shake off: This had been my fault. He was dead. How could he be dead? I had just seen him. I had just been there with him.
I sat there on that cold floor, my head in my hands, unable to get that image of Neil out of my mind. Calliope and Raphaella had been nothing; this shattered me into a thousand pieces. How had this happened? What was going on here? I heard footsteps, a familiar shuffle, and I knew it was Lance. The feet stepped just inside the door and stopped. But I didn’t want to look up yet, not until I could be sure my tears were finished.
“You okay? . . . It’s a dumb question I guess, but . . . are you?” he asked, gently.
“I must’ve been the last person to see him. I was just in there. How did . . . ?” I couldn’t finish my thought and couldn’t get out anything that made any sense. “I just . . .” I wiped my hands over my face and managed to lift my head back up. I felt like I had to pick up these pieces of myself and rebuild me. Lance stood frozen in the doorway, arms hanging limply at his side, a knocked-out numbness in his expression. He dropped into the chair at the table, listless.
“So, people are saying he had a heart attack or something. Just died on the spot. One of the maids found him. But he seems young, relatively speaking, for that—I don’t know, you’re the aspiring doctor.”
“Yeah. That’s not it,” I said. I didn’t care. I would say it all now, everything I knew.
“And something caught fire in his room—not sure what that was about. The details are all sketchy. We’ll find out, I guess.”
I stood up in a flash and tossed the remaining boxes of chocolates and notes in the last few bags.
“We have to get out of here. Right now.” I picked up as many bags as I could carry. I started walking out of the office and into the main gallery.
“Wait, it’s freezing out there!”
“I don’t care, I have to get out of here.”
“I’m going with you. Let me get our coats though; it won’t do any good if we get hypothermia. Gimme your keycard.” He held his hand out. I squirmed, trying to redistribute the bags in my full arms so I could free my key from my hip pocket, but I fumbled with everything. He finally reached out and slipped it out of my pocket himself.
“I’ll be outside.”
“You’re crazy,” he said as he went back to pick up the bags I’d left. “I’ll meet you in five, just wait for me.”
I couldn’t even think straight—I had been pushed too far and I needed to spill it all out of me, all of this toxic, toxic information bubbling up in me for too long. I just needed to be outside, I didn’t care how cold it was. I went right through the crowd gathered in the lobby and out the front doors, past the ambulance and fire truck and the police car.
In no time, Lance materialized, finding me on the side of the building, still gripping all those bags. He wore his parka now and had mine in his hands. The wind whipped through us as he took my bags from me and handed me my coat and keycard. We divided up the bags and began walking toward the L.
“I was the last one to see him alive. I brought that champagne up to him, that note. Did I do this somehow?” I didn’t realize I was speaking out loud until he answered me.
“You’re crazy, you couldn’t have done this. I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .” He was talking but I don’t know what he was saying. I knew his words were supposed to be comforting, but I was too busy turning everything over in my mind to pay much attention to what he was saying. That book had said to be careful who to trust. I’d have to take the chance that I could trust Lance, because I couldn’t be alone in this anymore. I couldn’t tell Dante right now, as much as that killed me. “Wait.” He stopped, interrupting himself. “What note?”
We reached the L, ascending to the platform, the wind strengthening against us. A train had just pulled up and we raced on. The car was virtually empty, and warm, thankfully. He took a seat right by the door but I kept walking to the very back where there was no one around. He settled in beside me. Our parkas puffed around us like airy floatation devices; the many gift bags littering our laps felt like extra insulation. All of these empty seats and yet we sat right next to each other, with all of our stuff, and it didn’t occur to either of us to move. I think we were both too relieved at being away from the Lexington to notice anything else. For the first time in a while, I felt at ease, even on this noisy, rickety train.
“I have to tell you something—a bunch of things, a whole mess of things—and I need you to listen and not think I’m crazy.”
He took a deep breath. “In light of recent events, I’m inclined to believe whatever you tell me—” When he said this, I perked up. “Because you may or may not possibly have saved my life by making me eat Lucky Charms today. So, lay it on me.”
That hit me: “First, we’re throwing away these chocolates when we get off this train. We’ll keep the boxes but we have to find a CVS or something and buy other chocolates to replace these with.” He didn’t challenge me or ask questions, he just nodded. “And second: We’re in trouble. Major life-endangering trouble.” I paused to see how he took this. His eyes dove into mine, serious.
“I’ve been starting to get that idea lately.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, nervously, then took them off altogether and wiped the lenses with his glove, before putting them back on. I sensed a current of understanding pass between us. And I launched in, telling him just about everything: that we were living among devils, that the Prince was Satan himself, and Aurelia, Lucian, and Etan were like his cabinet. I told him that the Outfit were missionaries trying to gain more followers and that they had all sold their souls and were trying to recruit more, that some sort of revolution was in the works. I told him about the induction—“Sounds like honor society,” he said, “except not honorable.” The only major thing I left out was that I was supposed to have some power to stop it all.
When I finished, we sat in silence for a few long minutes. I could feel him processing all of it, his brain overheating. And then, with that perfectly steady deadpan response I found reassuring: “So, you’re basically telling me that Raphaella wasn’t after me for my charm and devastating good looks?”
I was glad for a reason to smile. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying that I’m pretty sure Lucian wasn’t after me for my charm and devastating good looks.”
“Well, that’s his problem.” It was very sweet and gentlemanly of him.
“Why do we let people like this have this effect on us?” I asked, somewhat rhetorically, but glad to talk about something that wasn’t a matter of life and death even for just a moment. Lance wasn’t the type to let any question of psychology go unanswered.
“I guess we often want what we can’t have. Isn’t that a most basic trait of human nature? Isn’t that why, for instance, you girls always go for the bad-boy archetype?”
“Kindly refrain from saddling me with your generalizations, thank you. For the record, I’m never looking for the bad boy. There is no one more shocked than me that someone like that showed an interest in me. And really, I had no clue he was a ‘bad boy’ until I found out he was trying to steal my soul for Satan.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Maybe we should discuss why it is you guys always jump at the icy, glamorous girls, the ones descended from lines of giraffes and hourglasses who usually manage to show a lot of skin.”
“Point taken. But, much like you, I would argue that this bus
iness with Raphaella was an anomaly.”
“Speaking of, did you guys talk about anything that could help us figure—”
“We didn’t talk about much, I’ll tell you that much—” He cut me off.
“Ohhhh.”
“No. No, I don’t mean it like that,” he caught himself. “Unfortunately. I just mean there’s not much going on there, behind the façade of that giraffe and hourglass hybrid and everything . . .” He trailed off, looking past me out the window now.
I had so much to tell him. But he looked exhausted. I’d had much longer to try to accept it all. He needed to digest this before I threw more at him. I had to be patient.
24. Today Was . . . Unfortunate
Lance and I were all business the rest of the day, trashing those chocolates and replacing each one with far less pretty but far less toxic stand-ins from boxes we bought at a CVS, then scurrying around the city, on and off the L, uptown and downtown, dropping off the gift bags and invitations. I let him drop off the one at the mayor’s office—I knew it would make him happy, even though he didn’t actually get to meet the man himself. (Not because we were just lowly interns on a messenger run, but because the mayor was at lunch. He probably would have let us in because he was in love with Aurelia, like everyone else in this city, and her name granted us access to places where average folks didn’t get to roam.)
We made our last drop-off—to the producer of a local weekly lifestyle TV show—in the Belmont part of town. I hadn’t ever been to that neighborhood. At school I always overheard people going to concerts around here, or sneaking into the bars with their fake IDs; it was that kind of place. The streets were littered with music venues and clubs and hole-in-the-wall dives and vintage shops. Everyone looked too cool to hang out with us, but Lance and I were pretty used to that now thanks to so much time spent in such close proximity to the Outfit. Our pace had slowed since delivering the last of the bags, and even with the harsh wind at our backs pushing us ahead, we were at a crawl as we turned a corner, the steps leading up to the L platform now just yards away. Lance stopped first. Just stopped walking, right in the middle of the sidewalk with his hands tucked in his coat pocket. He looked like he wanted to say something but I spoke instead.
“I think we shouldn’t go back yet,” I said.
“Good. I don’t really want to go back there yet.” He sighed, relieved. “It’s not like they’re going to notice. There’s a body to remove and a party to throw.” He was calm, like me, arriving at this decision coolly even if there was absolute frantic fear behind it.
“And what do we have to do anyway?”
“Plan the friggin’ prom?”
“The friggin’ prom can wait.” I smiled.
He nodded in agreement. “So, what now?”
“I don’t know. You hungry?”
He shook his head. “I kinda feel like I might throw up.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“How about there?” He gestured with his hand still in his pocket, in the general direction of the thrift stores across the street. We crossed and stepped into the first store, all antique knickknacks, quirky old cuckoo clocks, phones shaped like ducks, and lunchboxes with pictures of TV shows I’d only heard of from the old edition of Trivial Pursuit Joan and I sometimes played. We browsed through the used books, but I could tell he was as distracted as I was. We just scanned the shelves and then walked past, neither of us bothering to pull down any tomes to bury our noses in.
We wandered out and tried the place on the corner, a three-story riot of sights and sounds, music blaring, racks upon racks of vintage clothes, shoes, accessories—everything anyone could ever need to look like they belonged in this neighborhood in any era between 1920 and right now. Lance peeled off toward the men’s section, and I roamed over to the vast emporium of worn, beat-up jeans. Dante would’ve been happy to see me in any of these—I’m sure they all had more personality than what I usually wore. I pawed through them, not really much interested in going to the trouble to try anything on. I stood on tiptoe to see over the racks toward Lance, who looked surprisingly enthralled by a wall full of old T-shirts. It didn’t look like he was in any rush, so I figured I might as well make the most of my time.
I walked up and down the aisles of racks, running my fingers over the clothes as the music pounded. I stopped before a wall of unisex accessories—hats and sunglasses and belts and messenger bags—and scanned it all. Maybe I could find something for Dante, anything to jar him into not being angry with me, to remind him that I cared about him and that whatever these other people were telling him, I was there for him. It gave me chills to think of Etan barring the way to him today in the kitchen. I had to get to him before they did. But I couldn’t right now. Right now all I could do was try to find something special for the friend I loved—and whom I wished I could tell all the things I’d told Lance. I flipped through the vines of belts, figuring maybe he should have a new one since I was always borrowing his, and I found the perfect choice: black leather with red and orange flames running across it. It was just a little bit over the top, which meant Dante would love it. A fine peace offering. I bought it and found a cozy, decrepit Barcalounger surrounded by stacks of an alternative weekly newspaper near the front door. I curled my feet up and read, waiting for Lance.
Eventually, he bounced down the steps from the store’s second level, plastic bag in hand. He plopped down in the weathered floral armchair beside mine.
“Who knew you were a shopper?” I said, pointing to the bag.
“Retail therapy, I guess.” He shrugged.
“What’d you get?”
“They had these old tour shirts.” He took a gray, worn Nirvana tee from the bag and held it up.
“Very cool,” I affirmed.
“And then these, I kind of liked, or whatever.” He held his hand up in a fist. On his wrist, he had two thin rawhide strings and a distressed brown leather cuff with two snaps as a closure. He shifted the cuff and something gold glinted. I leaned over to get a closer look and touched my fingers to the cool embedded bit of dulled metal: it was shaped like a wing, just like my necklace.
“Where did you find this?”
“Just in a big bin of stuff, up there.” He gestured toward the staircase and shimmied into his coat. “I think I got the only one though. But there was other cool stuff in there, if you want to look.”
“Right, no, I was just asking because—” I unzipped the top of my coat and fished around inside the neckline of my uniform, where it had gotten stuck. I pulled out my necklace. “I wear this, like, every day.”
“Huh.” He studied it.
“I guess guys don’t really notice those things.” I dropped it back inside my coat.
“No, but maybe it’s a subliminal thing and I don’t realize I’m looking at that one all the time,” he said. “Funny. Guess we match.”
“Well, clearly we both have good taste.”
He laughed. “Clearly.”
We made our way back to the hotel, walking along the bone-chilling streets and up to the L, onto that rattling train and then back down to the street again. We barely said a word much of the time, but we were enmeshed in our comfortable brand of quiet. It occurred to me that it was possible to gauge how close your friendship is with someone by considering how easy it is to be comfortably silent with them. Those are the moments when you’re most yourself.
As we inched along the block toward the Lexington, dusk falling all around us, my pulse began its nervous quiver. I heard Lance breathe out a sigh, unwittingly sharing in my dread. I searched my mind for anything I needed to get out before we were trapped inside again—inside where I didn’t feel I could entirely trust the walls.
“Can I ask a funny question?” I said. He looked at me, giving me permission. “Why do you believe me? About all this stuff, you know?”
“Seriously?”
I nodded. I’d been trying to decide whether, if the shoe were on the other foot, I would have b
een as accepting as he had been today.
“I guess maybe, because, well . . .” He buried his hands back in his pockets and looked down at his feet as we walked. “I know it’s not like we’re friends like you and Dante or anything, but we’re sort of the same—I get you. You’re smart, and you’re quiet unless you have something important to say. I feel like we kind of see things the same way. We think about things from every angle, maybe even too much. We don’t just . . . go along with things. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’ve been wondering what’s going on here for a while. They’re paying us an awful lot for what we do,” he said. “And they’re weirdly permissive—letting us into that club, not really caring so much if we drink—they could lose their liquor license for stuff like that. There’s always been something off about everyone. I’m kind of relieved that it’s not just me who noticed. Maybe that’s why I want to believe you. It’s usually that everyone else is supposedly normal and I’m the one who’s off,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I know what you mean.” I couldn’t even say anything more; it was just so very true that it blew me away. That was exactly how I felt pretty much all of the time.
“Yeah, part of me knew it couldn’t totally make sense,” Lance continued. “So basically I’m just grateful someone has come up with some sort of explanation for it all . . . even if this is the explanation. I wish I didn’t always overanalyze, but I guess that’s just me. Wouldn’t life be easier if we were stupid?”
Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One Page 31
