Illuminate (11 page)

The book lay there, open and upside down.

Not the book I’d been reading on Chicago history, but the other one, the empty black journal that Lance had found labeled with my name. I picked it up and fanned the pages again. They flew by like so many milky wings.

Except for a few pages. Full of black-inked squiggles.

I snapped the book shut and dropped it, as if it had bit me and I needed to fend it off. I crept to the corner of the bed, up against the wall, trying to keep as far away from it as I could. I had looked through every page of that thing before. There was no way I had missed all of this writing, it wasn’t possible. With tentative fingers I pinched at one sharp corner and slid the book toward me. I opened the cover slowly, leafing through the bare endpaper, and then found on the next page these words scrawled out:

Be strong, winged one. And beneath that: And beware all beautiful things.

My stomach dropped to the floor. But I had to keep going. I flipped past this perplexing inscription to a full page of the messy, curly script that looked nearly as unruly as my own. Marked across the upper right corner was today’s date. I curled my legs up, my arms around my knees, and began to read:

Happy belated birthday. You are sixteen and your life is about to change. You cannot possibly know how special you are going to be. You will be a legend. As powerless as you feel now, you will soon be nearly drunk with influence and control, astounded by the sheer force you possess within. But you must heed my words, Haven—

It knocked the wind out of me to see my name written by this mysterious hand. But I forced my eyes back onto the page. My hand to my mouth, my pulse racing, I kept on:

There is much to learn. And quickly, for you are in danger.

I hugged my knees closer to my chest, trying to steady myself. This was obviously some strange joke—maybe Dante was up to something, maybe he was making fun of me for being so cautious all the time, for treating everything like it was a life-or-death situation. But the handwriting didn’t look neat and clear enough to be his, it didn’t have the same bubbly quality. Even so, I wanted to bang on his door right now, wake him, wake Lance, wake the whole floor, do whatever I needed to in order to set my mind at ease. But I couldn’t stop reading.

You‘re a smart young woman, Haven. You are no doubt wondering what to make of this book, of this writing. You have to trust me. As an act of good faith, I will tell you things that no one else would know. To begin: You have three distinct scars. Each consists of three stripes. One of these scars is above your heart. Two are on your back.

I exhaled. Fine, I reassured myself. Telling details, indeed. It’s true there weren’t a ton of people who knew this about me, but there were some—Dante, Joan, everyone at the hospital, anyone who had bothered to watch me change for gym class. I read on:

Furthermore, when you get anxious or frightened, your scars begin to sting and burn.

No one knew this. My fingers began to tremble; I opened and closed my hands making fists and shaking them out. It was true though. It didn’t happen that often but then how often did I really feel scared on a daily basis? When you have an overprotective parent, there just aren’t that many opportunities to feel true fear. Fear of the future, of getting into a good college, of doing well on the SATs—these uncertainties were generally what passed as fear in my world, and they didn’t count. That wasn’t the kind of bone-chilling fear we were talking about here. True horror, the kind beginning to creep in now, was another beast entirely. It went on:

I also happen to know the genesis of these scars and the purpose they will serve in the future. I know many things that you don‘t know about yourself. But now is not the time for me to be telling too much. You must trust me. Your life depends on it. Do not breathe a word of this to a single soul.

That was all it said.

With a gasp, I snapped it shut and threw it across the room, a reflex. It hit the closet door with a thump and fell to the floor.

***

I needed sun. I needed light and daytime and morning and people and air, cold air that could snap me out of this strange world that book had sunk me into. I showered and dressed even faster than I had yesterday and sprinted down the hallway. How was it possible to sleep when I had just read these things? How could life be normal for anyone? Even if this was some joke . . . I don’t know. I couldn’t even finish the thought because it seemed too true. How could anyone know about the scars burning? I hadn’t told a soul.

I ran through the empty lobby, day just beginning to break and shed its first bright slice through the skylight. I pushed through the revolving doors, the icy wind pummeling my chest. The sky was painted in strips of violet, periwinkle, and orange, the clouds outlined in pink. I could’ve stayed out there for hours if not for the temperature, which finally forced me back inside.

It was just after six. Alone in the vast lobby, I watched the giant flat screen on the wall near the doorway flash snapshots of Aurelia and Lucian photographed at events at the Vault as news stories about the hotel flipped through on a loop. I stood there long enough that I managed to read each one. Even so, my mind wandered.

Supposing, somehow, this ridiculous book was actually true and I was in some mortal danger here. I couldn’t believe I was having thoughts like this.
You should not be taking this seriously,
I told myself.
There’s obviously some explanation and you’re going to sort it out as soon as—

The swoosh of the elevator doors startled me; I spun around. Aurelia—in another perfect slim dress and blazer, hair down and sleek, teetering on stilettos—stepped out.

She read the shock on my face.

“Why, Haven, good morning,” she said, nothing but calm in her husky voice. “I had no idea you were such an early riser. I’ll have to remember that. I respect that. I’m one too.”

I was relieved to see another human, and yet, this wasn’t who I would’ve picked if given the choice.

“Good morning, Aurelia,” I managed. As usual, I felt underdressed. I was a high school student, and I didn’t have little dresses and suits and heels.

She studied me, judging every bit of what she saw. Finally: “Are you all right, my lamb?”

“Oh, yes, never better,” I said, in a shaky tone. I tucked my unwashed hair behind my ear and my hand brushed against my cheek. The Band-Aid. I’d forgotten to yank it off. “Oh, um, this? I scratched myself in my sleep, I guess.”

“Be careful, we need you at your best.”

“Of course.”

She glanced down at her watch, her manicured nails fiddling with the clasp of the platinum chain strap; I turned just slightly away and swiped the Band-Aid off, sharp and stinging quick and stuffed the bandage in my pocket. Aurelia looked up.

“Come,” she said. As I followed her silently toward the Parlor, she spoke to the space straight ahead of her. “It’s a delight to be able to start our workday this way. I could use a second set of eyes this morning anyway. It’s never too early for sweets, I believe. Besides, we’ve barely had the chance to get to know each other.”

She led us past the potted palms to a large round table set for two at the center of the lounge. She took a seat, whipping her napkin and covering her lap. I did the same, making a louder snap than intended. Without a word, a stunning brunette Outfit member—I searched my brain for her name, Celine—emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with two teapots hand-painted in a design of entwined cherry blossoms. She wore a formfitting black short-sleeved dress that looked like a tight and tailored flight attendant’s uniform, with the LH insignia embroidered in red on the right breast pocket and left sleeve, her hair an endless rope of a ponytail. She set the teapots before us, beside matching teacups. I mumbled, “Thank you,” but Celine simply walked away without looking at me.

“That is the new uniform. Lovely, don’t you think?”

I nodded. “Very pretty.” There were a few painful seconds of silence. Aurelia set the silver sieve across the top of her cup, poured the sizzling liquid through it, and then, tea leaves collected, returned the small strainer to the porcelain half-moon shaped perfectly to hold it. As I copied her actions, it occurred to me that this was possibly the most concentrated time I would get with her. I had to try to push past my own rustling nerves and get to know her. I had to stop worrying that everything I said wouldn’t be smart or perfect and I had to just talk and hope for the best. “So, will we interns be getting uniforms too?”

“You will, indeed. Everyone will, no matter how big or small their job. I’m of the belief that a person works more diligently when he or she is wearing a uniform.”

“I can see how that would be true,” I agreed. “So you’ll have one too?”

“No. I don’t need one.” She lifted the teacup to her mouth, the steam curling around the features of her face, and took a long sip.

Trying not to feel I’d said something wrong, I too lifted the delicate porcelain cup in my hand—I hoped she didn’t see that it was shaking ever so slightly. Though a sedative, warm bed, and nightmare-free rest were most what I needed, the caffeine, I was sure, could do me some good. The day had only begun and I was already starting to feel the effects of not having slept nearly enough. I pressed the hot cup to my lips and took a sip, setting my lips, tongue, and entire throat aflame as it went down. I imagined a trail of blisters rising up along my esophagus. Aurelia didn’t seem to notice.

“So, tell me, how are you enjoying your time here so far?”

I smiled and cleared my throat as a test to see if my voice could push through my scorched lips.

“Very much.” The sound scratched as it came out. “It’s really a remarkable place. I had a great time working on the photos yesterday. I’m looking forward to doing a select today. How many shots would you like to see of each person? I have so many beautiful—”

“One. Choose well, but choose one each. Show me tomorrow morning.”

“Certainly.”

She looked at me closely, like I was an x-ray of a tiny, hairline fracture.

“Are you surprised that I trust you?”

It felt like a trick question; I wasn’t sure how to answer. After a second or two: “I’m glad that you trust me. Thank you. I won’t let you down.” At that moment, Celine burst through the kitchen door holding aloft a pair of trays. She set one before each of us. Each had three tiers lined with precious confections: scones, teacakes, petits fours, cookies, finger sandwiches of thinly sliced cucumber or salmon or lobster salad, bite-size fruit tarts and cheesecake squares, all tiny works of art.

“You’ll find that the more I like your work, the greater responsibility you’ll have,” Aurelia said. Her pinky sticking out like a radio antenna, she selected a scone from the top tier, placing it at the center of her tea plate. “I won’t give you one of those ‘you remind me of me’ soliloquies. But I will say there is a reason I am mentoring you myself. I think you will go far.”

I hadn’t expected to hear anything like that. My wheels were turning for the perfect response, but she continued on, leaving me no opportunity. “See that balcony?” She pointed to a protruding bulge in the corner, up near the windows. It looked large enough for only two people. “I think we may want a harpist during teatime every afternoon. What do you think?”

“I think people would like that.” I could imagine how it would sound when the hotel opened and well-dressed guests sipped here to the instrument’s delicate sounds; it would feel more alive. Right now the place was just a shell of what it could potentially be.

“Perhaps jazz musicians at cocktail hour,” she mused.

“That would be nice too.”

“Tell me, Haven, why do you think we celebrate someone like Capone here?”

This was feeling like a quiz, and I suddenly wished I’d gotten further reading that book last night. I took a stab: “To capitalize on the part of history that you own here.”

“There’s so much more.” She took another long, slow sip. I touched the cup and then backed my fingers away, not prepared to inflict that upon myself again. Instead, I simply waited for her to go on. She took her time. “Everything sinful is glamorous these days, isn’t it?”

“I . . . I don’t suppose I would know.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would,” she said in a tone that bled with disappointment.

I couldn’t form any words to respond. She went on. “From a business standpoint, naturally, we’re making the most of it. We’re fortunate enough that what we have is something inherently fascinating to many people—Capone, the lore, the legends. But what they really come here for is to be close to danger. To flirt with it, to be nearer to it than they would be in their daily lives, to imagine themselves to be different people than who they actually are.” She picked apart the scone, dolloped a spoonful of raspberry jam onto it, and took the smallest of bites. I did the same, my actions trailing hers by mere seconds. The scone was lemon flavored, studded with cranberries and so warm it dissolved like cotton candy in my mouth. I would have eaten it much faster if I had been alone.

“Like amusement parks, roller coasters. They scare people and that’s why they love them. They get a rush,” I said, wanting her to think that I understood.

“That’s charming. Yes, perhaps a bit like roller coasters. But this is darker. You don’t even like roller coasters, do you?”

“Of course I do.” I didn’t. At all. I had been on one when I was twelve, and that was enough. I thought I was going to fly out every time we took a turn or went upside down. It just didn’t seem like something I needed to be fond of.

“There is something alluring about being in the presence of something dangerous or even macabre. It breaks down inhibitions. It can be electrifying.”