Revelation (The Guardians, Book 3) Page 7

  I turn, blinking back the glow of blonde hair shimmering with morning light. Our eyes meet. My heart stops.

  "Joshua?" I say, so low I'm not even sure the word passes my lips. I squint, studying him, moving closer.

  He turns away, frowning.

  "Joshua?" I repeat, louder.

  "Sorry," he says, head shaking.

  But the voice.

  It's him.

  The realization that he doesn't recognize me strikes hard—a sucker punch to the gut. But of course he doesn't recognize me. He wouldn't. My hair. The color. "Joshua, it's me! Genesis. My hair's different, but it's Gee!"

  His eyes search mine, and I wait for a flicker of recollection. But . . . there's nothing. Nothing but blank stare. Barrenness. This unknown person standing before him claiming to know him, and wanting to remember because maybe it would somehow make him understand this world just a little better. But then: "I'm sorry. I don't know you."

  A nervous laugh. "Of course you know me," I say, pushing against his shoulder, trying to physically force the memory back into his body. "It's Genesis! You're 'Fists of Fury'! We trained together! I helped the Guardians!"

  His face grows pale at this, lips turning white, as if I've stumbled upon something—a connection—something he understands. "How do you know about the Guardians?" he whispers.

  "I know you're one of them. I know that, in an instant, I can blink and you'll be in another realm. I've been there. I know that if you disappeared you could still see my silhouette. I know there are angels and demons watching us. Right now."

  His eyes narrow. "How do you know this?"

  "Because of Seth. You know Seth!" I insist.

  Joshua shakes his head. "I don't know anyone named Seth."

  "You were best friends. You were an angel on probation."

  "We're not angels . . ."

  "You're Guardians," I finish, laughing, eyes watering, hysterical. "I know! You're a Guardian! You and Seth were inseparable! You knocked out your last charge! You—you pulled a chair out!" I remind him, frantic. "Don't you remember any of this?"

  "This isn't possible," he says, head shaking in disbelief. "You shouldn't even know . . ."

  "I do. I do know."

  His cheeks flush, flustered, features twisting with confusion. "I don't—I don't know you!"

  Prickles of anger stab my skin, rippling. And then I realize—he's telling the truth. He's not lying, making it up. He could never pretend not to know me. Or Seth. Especially Seth. But he knows the Guardians. "What did they do to you?" I ask, voice barely a whisper.

  His eyes tear from mine, glancing around us, even while knowing what we both fear can't be seen in the material world. "I have to go."

  "The Council. What did they do? What did they say to you?"

  But he's already backing away from me, distancing himself, moving up the beach toward the dunes.

  "Joshua, wait!" I beg.

  I blink. And he's gone.

  "Joshua!"

  I race to the condo, running every step, taking flights of stairs two steps at a time, lungs flaming.

  "Jesus Christ!" Carter shouts as I stumble inside. "Do you have any idea . . . ?"

  "I saw him," I interrupt, ripping his jacket off, tugging at sleeves, skin slick with cold sweat. "I saw Joshua."

  "What?"

  I struggle to inhale, practicing even, measured breaths. "Joshua," I pant. "He's still here!"

  "Do you need your inhaler?"

  "He didn't even know me, Carter!" I continue, ignoring him. "He didn't remember any of it! He didn't remember training, or Seth. He didn't know I knew about the Guardians at all! He didn't even remember my name!" I swallow back the lump blocking my throat. "It's the Council. They must have . . . done something to him. When they called everyone away, maybe they made them forget—everyone who had anything to do with me—to keep them from helping me." I stop, chest heaving. "We have to find Mara."

  "Genesis . . ."

  "We have to tell her what happened. We—"

  "Genesis," he says, voice rising.

  "What?"

  He clears his throat, apprehension simmering, radiating off him in a current of unease for what he's about to tell me—this secret he's kept. "Mara already knows about Joshua."

  I can't fight surprise. "What? When?"

  "After we left. It was one of the first things the Council did."

  My eyes narrow, heart pounding fury. Resentment. Suffering. "You knew? This whole time?"

  He nods.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" I demand to know, shoving words through clenched teeth. "You lied to me! Both of you!"

  "We didn't think it mattered at the time. You needed to focus on Viola and the Council. You didn't need anything else hanging over your head."

  "What else have you lied to me about, Carter? Where is Seth?"

  "That wasn't a lie. Mara doesn't know where Viola is keeping him. She promises they're looking for him, and that she's watching the Council. That's the best she can do right now."

  "How do we know she's not lying about that, too?" I ask, struggling to keep my tone level.

  "I trust her, Genesis. And you do, too."

  He reaches for me and I push him away, anger battering my skull, pounding my insides. "Get away from me!"

  Carter doesn't listen. He draws me into his arms, instead—wraps them tightly around me, refusing to let go even as I thrash violently, desperate to break free.

  My heart falters, emotions tangling, giving in. I lean into him, tears teasing their way from my eyes. And a whisper: "He didn't remember me."

  His broad chest sinks as he exhales, lips plant a soft kiss on my forehead. "I know. I'm so sorry."

  A perfect stillness. A quiet. Nothing but me and Carter and our hearts and their oscillating rhythms. And time—folding into itself, passing, stealing the moment.

  "Look," he finally says. "Tomorrow will be crazy—with my mom's thing and all. We should go out. Do something together. You know, for fun."

  There's a faint crack in his expression—something both sad and hopeful at the same time. And, trapped in it, I can't say no—even if I wanted to.

  SIXTEEN

  "I can't do this. I don't know what I'll say."

  "It's fine," Carter assures me, circling the driveway. "You'll be fine. I'll only be a couple of hours."

  "I know, but. . . ." I run my palms—slick with sweat—across my jeans, voice dimming. "I don't know what to say," I repeat.

  "It's just my mom and a few of her friends."

  His mom and her friends—exactly what worries me.

  I don't fit in here. I don't have anything in common with these people.

  I refuse to utter the words aloud, but would give anything for him to stay—to act as my buffer between worlds. I don't want to be left behind. I don't want to be alone.

  The Fleming's mansion looms in front of me and I gaze at it, lost in thought, twisting the ring around my finger again and again and again. Carter is already out of the car, waiting, so I adjust the sleeves of my cardigan and step into fall air. Sunlight warms my face, but, as I pass into the shadows of columns, a cool breeze blows through, eliciting a shudder.

  The front door swings wide before we even knock. "I'm so glad you're early," Kitty Fleming says, motioning us inside. "I was hoping we could spend some time together before everyone arrives. And, of course, there's plenty of decorating left to do."

  "I'm just dropping her off," Carter announces, voice travelling through the foyer, echoing.

  We hear footsteps approaching at the same time, heads turning toward Mr. Fleming in tandem.

  "It's good to see you again, Genesis," he says civilly. Then, nodding toward Carter: "Son."

  "Dad," Carter replies.

  Mr. Fleming clears his throat, stuffs his hands deep in the pockets of his khakis. "Did you mention you're not staying?"

  "Jack," Kitty cautions, resting her hand on his arm—a subtle reminder this was discussed; that he promised to be on his best
behavior.

  "I'll be back soon," Carter says.

  "He's taking his new toy out for a joyride," I explain.

  "Ah," Mr. Fleming replies, understanding. "I'd love to see it one day."

  "Sure." But something about his tone is off. Not quite right. And when I glance at him he's almost glaring at his father, a certain resentment etched into his features. Then, as if I imagined it all, the atmosphere eases. He leans closer to his mom, bending to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, then turns toward me. "Walk me outside?" he asks.

  Carter skips down the stone steps. I follow him, return to the SUV we just left—motor clicking as it cools—stop at the door he just slammed shut. He rakes fingers through his hair, a nervous flush creeping up his neck and reddening his cheeks. An awkward laugh. "This is going to sound strange," he admits, "but I have this incredible urge to kiss you before I go." Apprehension rolls off him in pulses, a quiet tension lingering.

  My eyes narrow. "Why?"

  He stares steadily at the concrete beneath our feet, keeping us grounded. "Can't explain it. I just do." A lazy shrug.

  "No. It'll . . . complicate things."

  His eyes train to mine, brimming with amusement, teasing. "What's the matter, Mrs. Fleming? Worried some of those pent-up feelings for me will re-surface?"

  "No." A heavy sigh. "This is just . . . hard for me."

  He laughs, grin deepening, any remaining traces of hesitation evaporating. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize being married to me was such a pain in the ass."

  "Yeah, well, you are a pain in the ass. But being married to you hasn't been too bad."

  Another contagious laugh. "Wow. That's not a compliment, is it?"

  "Not even."

  He watches me carefully, expression softening. "It's nice to see you smiling," he says.

  "You're not going to sweet talk me into kissing you," I warn.

  "Well, the way I see it, you don't have a choice." His voice lowers to an almost-whisper. "Because I know my parents are watching us, right now, through the dining room window."

  My head twists to . . .

  "Don't look," he insists, hand grazing my cheek, turning me back to him.

  "So?"

  "So," he continues, "part of this agreement was that you would do your share to convince people we really are in love."

  "And kissing you goodbye will accomplish this?"

  His head tips lower, gray eyes smoldering. "There was a time I didn't have to ask you twice to kiss me."

  My cheeks warm. I force myself to look away. "Things are . . . they're different now."

  "I know. I told you it wouldn't be like that, Gee, and I'm keeping that promise."

  I inch backward, distancing myself. "It's just that . . ."

  "Will you stop thinking so much?" he interrupts, fingers clasping the nape of my neck, pulling until we crash together. Our lips meet, and at first this kiss is soft and sweet, so much like the last one—that stormy night in darkened churches. But then his lips part and he exhales, breath mingling with mine. Suddenly he's kissing harder, hungry and reckless. And in this moment of weakness my eyes close, a thousand tingles paralyzing my spine as I kiss him back.

  Guilt jams my throat when he finally breaks away, heart racing.

  There are no words for mistakes like this. And inside I want to cry.

  "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

  I blink fiercely as the fog in my head settles, clearing. "People don't kiss like that and say they're 'just friends,' Carter."

  He opens the door, climbs inside the SUV. "Yeah, well, I might be your best friend, but you're my everything," he admits, voice raw.

  "Please don't say that," I whisper.

  "I just don't want you to forget."

  And I swear pain radiates so deep behind his eyes it's like I'm looking straight into his soul. Part of me feels wretched for not loving him the way he loves me—for not loving him like I should. The other part knows that lapses of judgment like these will ruin everything I've ever had in a second.

  Carter swallows hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching, head turning from mine as the door closes, dividing us.

  The engine growls to life, shuddering. And I watch the car swing around the driveway, Carter's hand lifting, reflecting in the rearview mirror, waving as he pulls into the street and out of sight, taillights disappearing.

  * * *

  The driveway is packed with cars. They spill into the street, these luxury vehicles with their sparkling exteriors and vanity plates—a hundred Selenas. Syrupy red punch sloshes against glass as I bring it to my lips, taking a quick sip.

  "Genesis!" Kitty Fleming calls from across the room, motioning for me. I turn from the window, mustering a smile, and follow her, weaving through the crowd. This is more than just a few friends. I could kill Carter for leaving me here. For being late.

  "These are two of my very best friends, Gretchen and Regina." I smile, unsure if Gretchen is the brunette with wavy hair or the blonde, highlighted hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

  "It's nice to meet you," I tell them. They mirror Carter's mother in many ways. It's easy to tell the haves from the have nots. Perfectly coiffed hair. Designer handbags. The jewelry—they're all dripping with it.

  Kitty launches into the story of how the three became friends while I zone in and out, smiling, nodding, sipping my punch.

  ". . . your ring?" Gretchen or Regina says.

  "Oh, sorry." I lift my hand. Gretchen or Regina cradles it gently in her palm. Her hand is soft, the product of a thousand manicures.

  "Isn't it gorgeous?" Kitty asks, admiring it as if it were her own.

  "It's beautiful."

  The other nods. "And so unique."

  A polite laugh. "We're not the most traditional couple in the world," I explain.

  "Well, I hope you're starting a new trend. The Flemings are known for making statements. Blue diamonds should be all the rage by this time next year."

  "Oh, it's not a diamond. It's a topaz."

  Both Gretchen and Regina laugh. "That is not a topaz," one says.

  "Is that what Carter told you?" Kitty asks, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

  "N—no," I stammer. "I just assumed. I mean, I'm not really a jewelry person. It was blue and I thought. . . ."

  "Look at the cut and the facets. A topaz would never sparkle this much."

  "And Regina knows her diamonds," Gretchen says.

  Gretchen is the ponytail, Regina the brunette.

  "Learned that lesson the hard way," Regina replies, eyes rolling.

  I pluck my hand away as the conversation shifts, studying the ring while they move on to pathetic first husbands.

  A diamond?

  He bought me a diamond anyway? That lying, sneaky. . . .

  Blood simmers in my veins.

  I'll kill him. I am literally going to slay him. Of all the. . . . I can't believe he bought me a diamond engagement ring and he didn't tell me! A diamond ring for a fake wedding? I stifle a venomous laugh. He didn't tell me because he knew I'd kill him.

  I scrutinize the stone, twisting it this way then that, light penetrating from every angle.

  It is awfully shiny.

  A blue diamond.

  I should've known he'd pull something stupid like this.

  * * *

  I down the last of the punch in a single gulp. Sugar courses through my bloodstream, heart drumming double time. I don't even know what glass I'm on. And the time. God. Every second ticking by, each minute seeping past. I set the empty cup on the dining room table, fold my arms, watch the driveway.

  "Still no sign of him?" Kitty asks, easing beside me.

  "Nope."

  "Well, everyone's getting restless. We'll have to open gifts without him," she says, fingers brushing my hair, fixing my bangs.

  I follow her to the formal living room, ignoring the oversized clock hanging above the mantel, hands frowning, seconds ticking away, unrelenting confirmation that Carter is late. Late. Late. Late. />
  Gifts are passed. Someone keeps track of what I'm getting, scribbling names, items on a notepad.

  From the Desk of Kitty Fleming.

  Time passes.

  A coffee maker.

  Monogrammed wine glasses.

  Silver picture frame.

  More time passes.

  Gift cards.

  Monogrammed luggage.

  Silver picture frame.

  Our names and initials are emblazoned on everything.

  More time passes.

  When the doorbell rings my heart soars, until I remember this is Carter's house, and there is no way he would ever ring the bell. Not when he has a key. Not when we're expecting him. And deep inside I know, at that moment, something happened. Something unexpected and awful and altogether nightmarish. I shove gifts aside, stumble over designer shoes and piles of white wrapping paper and satin bows. Kitty Fleming's heels click across marble tiles, and, for a moment, I'm transported to this very foyer, both a thousand hours and barely a breath ago, twirling in a borrowed blue dress.

  I reach her by the time she pulls the door open, and find myself staring at two uniformed police officers.

  "Mrs. Fleming?" one asks.

  "Yes?"

  We both answer.

  SEVENTEEN

  Seth's dark eyes catch mine, steadfast and unflinching.

  "You're here," I murmur. "You're real." My thumb skims his jaw line. His cheek. The arch of his brow. His eyes close, head tilting into my hand. "I thought I dreamed you."

  He jerks back, pulling away from me, as if my touch—the words—somehow burned him. The gesture wounds, shredding me from the inside out. After all this time, I don't want to—I can't be separated from him. I can't handle distance between us.

  "What is it?" I sweep strands of hair fallen into his eyes. His fingers intertwine with mine. They're strong, warm, and they send tingles racing through my body.

  "Let it go," he begs.

  "What?" I ask, not understanding.

  "Let me go."

  For a moment I doubt the words, convinced I misheard.

  Let him go?

  "I—I can't. I've lost everything," I stutter, heart locking with grief. "You're fallen because of me. I have to get you back. They promised."