And we did, along with a pair of strappy, high-heeled Mary Janes, which Joan was impressed I could walk in. “Hav, you’re a new woman,” she marveled. “You’re in heels, you’re going to the prom, you’re still wearing that necklace I got you.” I touched it now. “This all must be the influence of that glamorous boss of yours or something. You’ll have to thank her for me.”
“Right, I will,” I said, barely believable.
We spent the rest of the day catching up over lunch—where Joan filled me in on all the gossip at the hospital—and then strolling Michigan Avenue, browsing and window-shopping until the sun went down and it was finally time for her to take me back to the Lexington. She helped me get my shopping bags from the trunk and gave me a hug, ordering me to take pictures at prom. I didn’t mention that I no longer had access to a camera. I said I was sure I’d see her again before then and that we’d talk, and then I gave her another hug, a strong one, not wanting to let go. I felt my eyes well up, but tried to push the tears back.
“You know, it’s perfectly okay to be homesick,” she said softly. “It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. I know you always think everything is a sign that you’re not perfect enough. But it’s okay.” She put her hands up in surrender. “There, that’s all. Gotta let the parent do her parenting sometimes.”
“I love you, Joan, thank you so much, for everything,” I managed without tears.
“I love you too, sweetie. Fun day. We’ll have more of ’em when you aren’t working so hard here. Summer is just around the corner. Beach days at the lake, get ready!”
I nodded, smiling and hoping. Hoping so much that I would be there.
I watched her drive away until the last traces of her taillights were out of sight, and stood out there on the sidewalk in the chilly evening air until I had convinced myself that May 27 was going to be okay because it had to be. I would survive it and I would prove that book wrong. I would do whatever I needed to, whoever I needed to fight, no matter what was required of me. This was a game that I was simply going to have to win.
When my hands and feet began to grow numb, I joined the masses pouring into the hotel for their dinners and their drinks and their evening excitement, but that was my prison. As I cut through the bustling lobby with its piped-in jazz music making me wish I could be transplanted to another time and forget all of this, I felt his eyes on me. I permitted myself a quick glance as I passed that hallway behind Capone, the one that I had floated out of after our dinner that one night. And there he was in the shadows, folders of some sort stacked in his hands, looking like he was going somewhere and had momentarily lost his way. He just stood there watching me; I averted my eyes, fast, picking up my pace toward the freight elevator. I missed the good Lucian, the one I went on those few dates with and flirted with, who made me feel special, even though it probably was just an act. The heart doesn’t make these distinctions. Mine only knew that it had felt a pull to him and then it had been so disappointed by who he was and by how false his feelings had been. When the elevator doors swallowed me up, I felt relieved.
And lonely.
A look at my watch, however, comforted me: 7:55. Lance ought to be back.
Of all the unexpected and bizarre occurrences I had braved during those past months at the Lexington, I was least prepared for what happened as the prom and that singularly tormenting date on the calendar inched closer. I sensed it the minute I hit the one-week mark. When I woke up that morning, with only seven days separating me from the specter of potential death, I felt a seismic shift in me. My eyes sprung open that morning, wider and more alive, more alert, than they had ever been, taking everything in in a way they hadn’t before. Every one of my senses was newly invigorated, intensified, reporting even the most minute bits of data back to me: the scent of whatever delicious buttery, savory poison wafted from Etan’s kitchen at Capone as I tried again to talk to Dante; the embellished notes of the trumpet playing its jazzy swing tunes over the lobby’s sound system; the caress of the velvet curtain as I brushed past it through the gallery’s door; the taste of our pilfered chips and salsa, and our quiet satisfaction, after Lance and I absconded with goods from that bar’s pantry following another grueling workout in the tunnels.
It was a strange thing, to be hearty and strong and yet to know that you had so little time left. Instead of being defeated by the weight of that knowledge, something new took over, this desire to outlive everyone each day. Your minutes burst with productivity and perception; everything looks and feels different. I knew something was coming for me, I knew I was as prepared as I could be, as strong as I had ever been in my life, physically and mentally. And I knew that I would just work until that day came to piece together a way to stop it.
Lance and I had done a reconnaissance upstairs looking to see if there was anything on which to eavesdrop, but had found nothing so we ran our laps. We were fast now, neck and neck at breakneck speed. It never ceases to amaze me that when you put time into something, at some point, without fail, you start to see results and reap the rewards. We climbed back up with our snacks and chatted about the latest on the dreary prom planning.
“I still don’t understand how Courtney and all of them picked ‘Hot for You: The Great Chicago Fire’ as the theme,” I said.
He shrugged. “It was on the list we gave them.”
“Yeah, but we were kidding when we made that one up.”
“Well, I guess, joke’s on them. Personally, I thought, for sure, they would pick the Roaring Twenties. Three out of five schools prefer Roaring Twenties.”
“I know. I mean, hello?” I shook my head. “At least we don’t have to get a real cow.”
“I believe the theory about the cow starting the fire has been debunked by historians anyway.”
“I think it’s pretty much just that they want those drinks en flambé, right?”
“Pretty much.”
We were quiet for a moment. I imagined he was thinking what I was.
“In all seriousness though,” he started, his tone heavier now. I knew what he meant without even saying it: it was clear, from all of our snooping and poking around, that Aurelia and company intended to buy souls in bulk at these proms, and they would no doubt be pulling out all the stops to do it. There would be plenty of likely contaminated food and drink, and the Outfit would be working the event. It didn’t matter what our feelings were toward the people we went to school with, we couldn’t just let this happen. I hadn’t yet told Lance about the book’s warning for me. I don’t know what I was waiting for, except maybe I didn’t want him to worry or to treat me like I was suddenly fragile. I actually felt less fragile than I ever had in my life. So I would wait until I absolutely had to tell him, if that time came at all.
“I know. We’re running out of time. We’ve got most of the pieces but we just need to know how they fit and how to stop it.” I picked up a few crumbs from the carpet and began collecting our empty chip and pita bread bags and jars. We exchanged looks.
“Try again?” he asked, standing up and brushing himself off.
“Yep.”
And we ascended the ladder again. This had become a recent addition to our routine—if we didn’t find anything on the first go-round, we would take one more look before calling it a night. Sometimes we would even go in shifts. Lance was particularly diligent and could disappear up there for incredibly long stretches of time. It was nice to divide up the work.
This time up there we had more success. Aurelia and Lucian were in her office in their usual places: she at her desk, he on that sofa. But instead of being sprawled out, not caring, as I’d seen many times, this time he sat upright. I found out why a moment later when the Prince came into view. He had been right up against the wall with our peephole and now he stepped away, pacing.
“Yes, so we have a week, but I have to warn you—every day they become harder to control. I . . . I don’t know what they may be capable of,” she stammered slightly.
“Come, now, my pet, we
mustn’t get too upset,” the Prince soothed.
“I know, my liege, but the photos, they’re getting worse by the day. I can’t take it.” She let the desperation creep into her voice, throwing her hands up, exasperated.
“Then stop looking at them. Or, stop looking at yours, since that’s what you really care about,” Lucian said, coldly, almost under his breath. She ignored it.
“It’s a sign. Her powers, her soul-illumination skills are getting stronger.”
“You could always destroy your photo. Of course, that would be suicide.”
“Lucian.” The Prince faced him, his name snapping out like a serpent’s tongue. “I’m not sure what has come over you, but it’s time you remembered your place.” Lucian averted his eyes from this wrath as the Prince looked to Aurelia again. “You’re well aware of the soul illuminator’s unique trap. She holds the key. You cannot destroy those marred photos yourselves, as the subjects, or it would be death for you. If you want to erase these photos, we have to destroy her, or win her soul.
Aurelia gathered herself, upright and professional. “Lucian has proven unsuccessful. I propose we remove him from this assignment,” she said.
“I’m just not sure she can be swayed,” Lucian said slowly, weighing his words.
“Very well, then that is it for her,” the Prince said easily. My hand shot to my mouth to stifle a gasp. Lance looked at me with wide, worried eyes. “She either joins us or we kill her. It’s that simple.”
“My liege,” Aurelia started. “She’s too valuable to us. I think she may not yet know what she is. We may have to be more direct with her, present her with her options, sell this life to her. I will try once more and then, if necessary, we pounce. We can make a decision on the other two when we’ve chosen our path with her.”
“All right, try then,” he agreed. “But Lucian, if you are forfeiting her, then we will need to see better numbers from your recruiting among the masses.”
“Yes,” Aurelia concurred, with a smirk. “I’m afraid you’re actually not accomplishing much at all these days. Why, our overall numbers are increasing exponentially but Etan and Beckett and Mirabelle are doing the heavy lifting.”
“I assure you I will redouble my efforts,” he said, his voice hissing but dulling to a pained whisper.
“Yes, you will,” the Prince said, with ease. And then with a nod of the head toward both of them, he disappeared, a fiery ring flaming around him on the floor and then extinguishing itself just as fast. Before Aurelia could say a word, Lucian burst up from his seat and stomped out, slamming the door with such strength that even Lance and I felt it, jumping at it in unison. We crept back out. That had been plenty for today.
That book began speaking to me again later that night. For the first time in weeks, I looked in those pages and found today’s date written in. I didn’t know whether to be relieved that I had a guide again or worried—if it had wisdom to impart, it meant I must need it. I curled up to read:
Prepare to be bold and fearless. You have nothing to lose now and it is time to begin asserting your strength. Let your adversary know that you are something to be reckoned with. Stand tall, be firm, be forceful, and trust yourself. It‘s time.
The funny thing about that book, even when it wasn’t speaking to me in specifics, even though I wished it could just spell everything out for me instead of forcing me to figure so much out on my own, it was still oddly comforting. Sometimes it just helped to be reminded that there was some force in the universe that seemed to have my back and seemed to think that I could make it through. I needed all the support I could get, wherever it was coming from.
27. I Need to Talk to You
After what we had glimpsed in Aurelia’s office the night before, I shouldn’t have been surprised that she answered the door the next morning when I arrived and said, “Come, it’s time for your performance review.” She pulled the door shut behind her and marched in sharp, scissoring strides to the Parlor. A manila folder was clutched to her chest—I wondered what could be in there. I scurried along behind her and then caught up, matching her stride for stride. I stood tall.
A table—the same one where we had sat together that one morning when I first started—had been set for us. We both took the same seats we had taken before. The kitchen door burst open and out came one of the girls who had received a necklace at the first induction ceremony I had witnessed and . . . Dante. He carried a tray with two small teapots and two teacups. The girl had two multitiered trays stocked with all manner of sweets and baked goods. While Aurelia was busy giving the girl marching orders for the rest of the day, Dante served me. When he placed the teacup in front of me, his eyes looked in mine. They were the eyes I remembered and had missed, vibrant and dancing.
“I hope everything will be to your liking,” the girl said to both of us. Dante stood quietly beside her then they both disappeared behind the kitchen door. Aurelia began pouring her tea and as I grabbed mine, I spotted something inside my cup. Written in honey but with such precision and delicate lines he seemed to have used a quill, Dante had left me a message: Library Tomorrow 10 p.m. My eyes shot back in the direction of the kitchen, but he was long gone. I tried to conceal my joy. I don’t know what had happened, but I was getting my friend back. I poured tea into the cup, dissolving the message, but simply knowing it had been there warmed me and gave me an extra push to power through this meeting. Whatever would come my way.
Aurelia took a sip of her tea, steam rising from her cup. At least this time around I had a better understanding of why she liked things so hot. “Before we begin, I wanted to show you this.” She pulled a magazine out of the folder and handed it to me. On the cover of Chicago magazine, next month’s issue, Aurelia stood, arms crossed, eyes gazing out. Beside her was a silhouette of the hotel, except it was made up of dozens of smaller photos, put together in the shape of the Lexington. I looked at these pictures and saw so many familiar faces: Dante, Lance, Etan, and lots of members of the Outfit. Sprinkled in were a few candid shots of guests at the Vault. Near the top, featured prominently, was a photo of Lucian, but above him, at the very top . . . was me. Me in my uniform walking down the lobby. I couldn’t even imagine when it had been taken. From time to time through these months, we had had various professionals on hand snapping pictures for one reason or another—more since the opening (and since I was taken off of photography duties). This one of me, surprisingly, looked pretty good. Across the bottom of the cover it read: “Rebuilding a Landmark.”
“Wow!” I couldn’t help it, it just slipped out. I flipped inside to the story and found more pictures: some that I had taken of revelers at the Vault; a shot of me with Lucian; me with Aurelia on the night of the opening; and even Lance and me on our matching ladders painting that mural. “This is . . . nice,” I said, trying not to sound too effusive. Aurelia looked pleased with herself though. My scars were as hot as that teacup.
“You’ll find we say some very nice things about you in there. Go ahead, you can keep that copy.” She gave me the broadest and warmest of smiles.
“Thank you.” I set it beside me on the table. “I look forward to reading it.” I was jumping out of my skin.
“Good. Now, I’m sure you’re aware that this prom season marks the beginning of the end for us.”
“Yes.” My mind parsed that sentence for its full meaning. Did she know that that particular date was one I feared? Calm down, I scolded myself. You have to maintain an air of serenity, like she does; it shows power. “Time flies when you’re having fun,” I added, a little too dull in delivery to be believed, but with a renewed strength behind it. Not wishy-washy, no girlish smile. Progress.
“Yes, so I thought it only right that we have our performance review today, since there’s so little time left.”
“All right,” I said. My whole body braced for what might come at me.
“First I want to say, you have done a fine job here. I think you already know that.”
“Thank you.”
“Truly extraordinary work in the gallery. Your photography is”—she corrected herself—“was beautiful before, you know . . .” She seemed sorry to have gone down this path. “You’ve done excellent work in handling our customers and media clients and in keeping me informed of what is being written about us and so forth. And I understand you’re doing exceptional work planning these prom events for the schools.”
“Thank you.”
I could tell from the tensing muscles in her delicate neck that this was not going as she had hoped. She seemed to have expected to find me more eager and striving, the way I was the last time we sat in these seats. But she carried on.
“I have said this before and you’ll see I say it in that article: I see you as my protégée and I see you playing a major role in our organization here.”
I said nothing. I just stared at her with a serious expression. She studied me for what felt like a very long time and finally I saw something change in her eyes. She leaned in, her shoulders less rigid now, easing.
“You may not feel that you entirely understand what goes on here. You may not feel you entirely understand . . . me.” Her voice came softly, slowly, a shift I had trouble processing. “But I understand you, Haven.” She paused as though deliberating how much to share. “I was you. In every sense I was you once.” She had said something like this when we had first met at this table, but then it was full of bravado. Now there was a wistfulness, a vulnerability, behind it. I didn’t want to believe it, or to take it in and let it rattle inside my brain or heart, but it caught me so much off-guard, this side of her.
“I was like you: focused and thoughtful and serious and unsure. I had my goals and feared being overlooked as I pursued them, as I’d been overlooked in other aspects of my life.” She sat back in her seat, looking somewhere over my shoulder, thinking. I just sat trying to gauge how to read this—as truth or some sort of act?—trying to reconcile this conflicted figure with the woman I’d watched command such dangerous men in her office. My mind was jumbled. I didn’t know this Aurelia and I wasn’t prepared for her.
Illuminate: A Gilded Wings Novel, Book One Page 35
