Revelation (The Guardians, Book 3) Page 2

  "I told you," he says, tone hardening. "That wasn't an option."

  I turn from him, his furious eyes, back to Mara. "What about Joshua?" I ask.

  She frowns. "My belief is that the Council moved him, as well."

  My spine stiffens. "What? Why?"

  "I've been unable to establish a motive," she replies, stealing a quick glance at Carter. "They may have needed him elsewhere."

  An empty silence as the news settles between us. Joshua, James, Seth, Carter. Gone. Relocated. Trapped. Unprotected. All because of me.

  I have to fix this.

  "There is something else," Mara continues. "I should have spoken of this sooner. It's regarding the Council. It's rumored they wish to speak with you. It's said they're planning to request an audience."

  "An audience," I repeat. Haven't they done enough? Stripping me of my Guardian after I swore to help them. Letting Viola screw with my visions. Putting Seth on a path straight to Hell. And now they want an audience with me? My jaw tightens, tensing. "Why?"

  "I cannot say."

  "You can't say or you don't know?" I ask, voice rising, infuriated.

  "I do not know."

  "When?"

  "The Council moves according to its own timeline. I'm only here to warn that you should expect them."

  My body lightens, anger receding, replaced with something like apprehension, concern. "Will this be a good meeting or a bad meeting?"

  A line of doubt creases Mara's forehead. "This is only speculation, but my guess is that it will fall somewhere between. I expect they will ask for a favor."

  I stifle a laugh. "A favor? Are you kidding me?"

  "No. But I will promise you the Council asks for nothing without offering something in return."

  Her eyes sharpen, cautious, a glimmer of knowing passing to mine, a kind of understanding. The implication of her words weigh heavy in my mind: the only thing they could offer that would make any kind of difference.

  "Seth."

  "I do not know what they will promise, but, for now, you should expect them. Prepare yourself." She casts a wary glance toward Carter. "Both of you."

  FOUR

  I move from bedroom to hallway, wrestling a sweater over my head. Closer to the living room I hear voices. A voice. I'm not sure. I pause at the edge of the wall, peering around it, listening. Carter is in the kitchen, back turned, cell phone pressed against his ear.

  "No, I'm not kidding. I want them in seven days," he says, voice barely above a whisper. He leans into the refrigerator, forehead resting against his arm. An extended, stony silence as he waits for the speaker to finish. "I don't care. Just get it done. I'll call back at the end of the week."

  Carter shoves the phone into his back pocket. He stands silent, frozen, refrigerator supporting his weight. I hold back, lingering a few beats longer before entering the room, clearing my throat.

  "Hey," he says, facing me.

  "Hi." We study each other a moment, but, just as I open my mouth to mention the phone call, he turns toward the dining area, a bounce in his step.

  "I got something for you."

  He fumbles inside a paper bag, removes a black plastic case, sets it on the table. He unfastens the latches, revealing its contents. A handgun. It's small. Compact. Dark. Dangerous. A shiver trembles along my skin.

  "Carter, I—"

  "What?"

  "I can't. I can't use that."

  He laughs, but it's short, without humor. "You spent half the summer chasing demons and throwing knives at people, Gee. Don't tell me your moral compass swings away from firearms."

  "It's safe to say my moral compass has been demagnetized. I'm morally bankrupt."

  "Then you should be okay with the gun."

  "I'm fine with the gun. It's the shooting it that's the problem," I mumble, half under my breath.

  "Guns," he corrects. He opens a case containing another, identical firearm. "This is a silencer. These are your holsters." He snaps a long black tube on the end of one of the guns, nods toward a mound of leather on the table.

  "A silencer?" I repeat, disbelieving, gazing at the tangled pile. Holsters? "What am I gonna do with all of this?"

  "Protect yourself. We can load them with silver bullets," he teases.

  "They're demons, Carter. Not werewolves." I exhale a frustrated sigh, hesitating. "I don't . . . I'm not sure about this."

  His eyes train to mine, voice harsh, calloused. "Look, if you can throw a knife and kill a demon, you can sure as hell learn to shoot a gun. This is a million times safer for you. And a million times more accurate."

  "But Mara . . ."

  "But Mara nothing, Gee! Mara's not here! Seth's not here! There's no one left but me!"

  The words sting, lancing my chest, deepening an already hollow wound. They're true. I know they are. But somehow Carter saying them is worse than hearing them repeated over and over in my head, their ceaseless ricochet, bouncing between ears, nothing compared to the blow of having them confirmed aloud.

  "I promised I would take care of you," he goes on, taking a strangled, anxious breath. "The knives are great, but they're hard to carry. They're noisy. And when you run out, it's over. Look." He organizes a stack of cardboard boxes, arranging them on the table. "There's plenty of ammunition, and you can carry extra magazines on you. When you run out, just slap in a new one."

  "This isn't Mission Impossible."

  "You don't know that," he replies, voice clipped.

  A heavy silence settles between us, stretching to infinity and back, the weight of this new reality, this new status quo, pressing into us, suffocating.

  "They're both semiautomatic," he finally says, words edged with quiet resolve. "All you have to do is press the trigger. They're in my name right now, but I'll take you to get your concealed carry permit after your birthday."

  My birthday. I almost forgot.

  "What's this?" I ask, plucking a leather strap from the pile.

  "That's a shoulder holster. It hooks around your ribs, so you can conceal the gun under your arm. There's also one for your ankle, your thigh, your waist, and a pocket holster. Which one you use depends on what you're wearing. You'll need easy access, and a hiding place that doesn't attract attention."

  I stare at the heap, confounded by his easy, quiet confidence; mystified at the level of consideration taken, the plans made—every last detail covered, every risk anticipated. "You thought of everything, didn't you?"

  "Come on," Carter insists, ignoring this, gathering the guns and the silencer and the boxes of ammunition. I follow him, passing through the back door and onto the porch. Daylight falters, sun descending below the range, streaking the sky with fiery reds and oranges, air cool and damp. He loads a stack of bullets into a clip, slides it into the gun with a snap.

  "It's a SIG—one of the best handguns on the market. That's what the dealer said, anyway."

  "I'll bet he was thrilled you dropped by," I mutter, hanging back, folding my arms across my chest to keep warm.

  "Yeah, well, he made me drop by a few times. It took him a while to get the paperwork ready. Thank God I don't have a record."

  "Yet," I throw in.

  He glances over at me, gray eyes tight and wild. "You're going to practice like crazy, Genesis. You're going to learn this thing, inside and out. You're going to take it apart and put it together with your eyes closed. You're going to practice with the holsters, and you're going to carry it on you at all times. Both of them. If one fails, you reach for the other. Got it?"

  I nod, feeling the sting of teeth sinking into chapped lips.

  "Your mag holds eight rounds," he continues.

  "What's a round?"

  "A bullet. They're forty-five caliber. I bought a supply, but if you're ever in a situation where you need more, that's what we're using."

  "Why forty-five?"

  "Let's just say it's the difference between pissing someone off and removing an appendage."

  "Jesus, Carter."

 
"Relax," he says. "Respect it, and it'll respect you."

  My stomach plummets, churning, anxiety blooming as he hands over the weapon. I wrap my fingers around the grip, squeezing tightly. It's too heavy. Too powerful. Too final.

  FIVE

  The forest is calm, perfectly still. My arm lengthens, aiming for a tree just over twenty-five yards away, holding the gun steady. When I pull the trigger, the bullet explodes from the barrel. The sound ricochets off mountain, echoing; the shell casing pings against deck, bouncing behind me before rolling off the side and into bushes. I slide the gun into the holster resting just behind my right hip, satisfied.

  I bound down the wooden stairs and cross the yard, leaves crunching with every step. The target is nearly obliterated. I remove the fragments that remain, crumbling them, shoving them into my back pocket. A low wind sweeps through, and leaves skitter past, dancing around my feet, falling from trees above. I remove the gun from the holster and reach for a new clip, ignoring the goose flesh rippling across my skin. A few quick clicks and I'm re-loaded. My eyes train on the woods, watching, listening, heart thudding one extended beat after another.

  Inside the cabin, I lock the sliding glass door behind me and check the front, gun tight in my fist. I don't know why. Precautions are worthless. Windows and doors and locks don't deter what I want kept out.

  I pull back the living room curtain, searching the empty driveway.

  I grab a bottled water from the refrigerator and head to the bedroom. I stop short, surprised to discover a dress hanging from the top of the door. It's gold. Short and shimmery. Sleeveless, with a cowl neckline. Gorgeous. A note is taped to the hanger. I immediately recognize Carter's quick scrawl.

  Happy Birthday!

  Pick you up at seven.

  I check the time, stifling a groan.

  Of course he wants to take me out.

  I shower, smooth concealer under sleep-deprived eyes, blow-dry my hair. With careful maneuvering, I even manage to zip the sparkly gold dress on my own. But my insides plummet as I face my reflection in the mirror, plunging into a sweeping resentment. The dress is gorgeous, tailored and accentuating all the best places—perfect. But the tattoo. . . . The tattoo ruins everything.

  My fingers stretch across the ink painting my arm, wrist to shoulder. The images smother my skin, refusing to allow air inside, to let me breathe, colors seeming to glow. I turn to where angel wings kiss the inside, passing life and love through my veins, hiding scars. Proof that he exists.

  No one has seen him. . . . She's hiding him well, Mara said.

  A familiar stroke of grief renders me breathless, this burden pressing against my chest.

  I have no choice. There are no other options. The only way out is through Viola. The only chance I have to save Seth rests in my willingness—my ability—to help her, whatever she asks. If the Guardians can't find him . . . if Mara, Warrior of all Warriors can't find him, what can I possibly do on my own?

  My stomach pinches with dread.

  That's exactly what she wanted.

  And it hurts. It physically hurts feeling this small—this weak and insignificant—to know that no matter what I do, on my own, it will never be enough.

  I'm supposed to change the world. The Guardian in my dream—my vision?—said I would. But how can I change the world if I can't even control my own tiny corner of the universe? How could anything I do matter? And most important: why me?

  I lift the rose from the dresser, close my eyes, inhale. The scent lures me from this place, this time, memories of Seth flickering through my head. The old rental house. Broken glass. Bodies twisted in a pile of sheets, gentle kisses, breath warm against my neck. The recollection fills me with strength. Courage. Determination. I swallow the knot jamming my throat, pushing bitterness aside, sliding my black knit cardigan off the hanger.

  Whatever it takes, I'll get him back.

  Outside, wheels turn over the driveway, gravel crunching beneath them.

  By the time I reach the living room Carter is at the front door, fidgeting with keys. I seize a mouthful of air, holding it, heart rushing, and smooth my dress. He steps into the entryway, arms full of plastic bags—what looks like groceries. He pauses when he sees me, grin deepening, and whistles low under his breath. A fiery blush stings my cheeks. "I see you got my note."

  "I thought I told you not to plan anything for my birthday."

  He drags the remaining bags inside, kicks the door closed with his foot. "I didn't. I'm just taking you to dinner. I figured you would need a dress, so. . . ." He trails off, eyes drifting. "You look great, Gee."

  "Thank you. For the dress, I mean. It's perfect. And . . . check this out." I lift the front, tilt my leg, revealing the leather holster, forty-five strapped inside.

  "Now that is sexy."

  I laugh, amused. "Yeah, I thought you might say that. Can I help bring something in?"

  "Nope." He sets the bags on the counter. "I got it."

  "Well, let me at least put them away. I feel like you're carrying all the weight around here."

  "Hardly. But if it makes you feel better, go for it. I need a shower, anyway. Give me fifteen, then we'll head out."

  * * *

  The restaurant is a solid twenty miles out of town. A little Italian place. Cozy. Not fancy—not dress shirt and khakis and shimmery gold dress fancy, anyway—but nice. Red tablecloths. Fresh flowers. Candlelight.

  Carter and I fill up on bread, split an order of lasagna, share a complementary brownie—fresh from the oven—and vanilla ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup. And, by the time we're climbing the steps to the cabin, I've decided only one thing could have made this night more perfect. I force back the hot tears threatening my mascara, my cheeks, the entire evening. Carter is trying so hard. I don't want to ruin it. I can't think about Seth—how he should be here, right now, celebrating with me.

  I'll get him back. I'll find him, and I'll figure out a way I can be with him.

  Inside, Carter assembles a small pile of logs in the fireplace. He crumples newspapers, cramming them between wood, lighting them with a long, slender match. I kick my shoes to the side, toss the couch pillows onto the floor. He shuffles around the kitchen while I prod the fire with a metal poker, stirring it. The fire grows brighter, warming the room. In a few moments he returns, glasses of red wine in hand.

  "What is it about this town?" I ask, taking a glass from him. "First guns and now wine?"

  He sinks to the floor beside me, shoulder touching mine. "I have no idea. They didn't even card me."

  "You don't really look like someone to screw with. They probably didn't want any trouble."

  "Are you saying I cause trouble?"

  I hike the fabric of my dress up my leg, remove the handgun, empty the chamber, and place it on the floor beside me. "No more than I'd cause." He leans away from me, untucking the dark blue dress shirt from his khakis, producing a nearly identical gun from his belt holster. "We're just a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, aren't we?" I tease, taking a sip of wine. The first taste shocks my tongue, burns my throat as I swallow.

  "It ended badly for those two," he reminds me, voice low, serious.

  The fire blazes, flames reaching, flickering. An uneasy quiet pervades, the distance expanding between us. I don’t know what to say, anymore. What to do. I don't know this Carter. This Carter who whisks me to safety, no questions asked. This Carter who risks everything, who brandishes guns, willing to use them. . . .

  "You've changed," I finally say, puncturing the stillness.

  "How?"

  "You're just . . . different now."

  His finger traces the rim of the glass, agitating the wine. "Be more specific."

  "I don't know. You're not. . . . You don't seem like you, anymore."

  "I thought every girl wanted the bad guy," he says, taking a swig.

  "You're not a bad guy," I tell him.

  "What am I, then? Or better yet, what, exactly, am I supposed to be?"

  My shoulde
rs lift, a quiet shrug. "I don't know. Carter. Carter Fleming."

  "What does that even mean?" he asks.

  "It means what it means. This isn't. . . . It's not you."

  "Why? Because I'm a Fleming? Because we're loaded? No cares? No worries?"

  The fire warms my bare skin, dries my eyes. "That's not what I meant."

  "But it's true. We have our whole lives set up for us."

  My cheeks prickle with the heat of embarrassment.

  The accident—the fight we had.

  "I'm sorry. I was angry. I shouldn't have said . . ."

  "You were right, though."

  "No, I was wrong. I should've never dragged you into this. Your life was perfect before you met me."

  "You didn't drag me into this. And I didn't start living until I met you."

  "This isn't living," I argue, voice rising. "Not hiding in the mountains. Not running from demons. You should be in school right now. Having fun."

  "That's not what I want. If I go to college, if I work for my dad, if I become just like him, it's over. I mean, what difference would I make? In a hundred years, who would even care?"

  The flames snap, sparks revolting as they mount the sky.

  "I care." I slide out of the dark cardigan and set it aside. The firelight dances with the images on my arm.

  "I want to be more than a Fleming," he says, ignoring me. "I want a chance to make my own difference, apart from them."

  He takes my hand in his and turns my arm over, examining the flowers and vines, the contrasting colors, patterns. And I hate that I don't know what he's thinking, what he sees when he looks at me. We broke up what feels like forever ago—like yesterday. I fell for my Guardian—the one who was supposed to protect me—and now he's gone. I've lost everything, and it's all my fault. If I would've been better. . . . If I would've fought harder. . . . And here he is, caught in the middle of it all. I swallow back contempt for Viola. The Council. Myself.