Dark Hope (26 page)

Despite the early hour, there had been a smattering of people nursing their drinks and cigarettes as they mindlessly worked the machines. They didn’t even notice us as we picked our way through the cavernous room. Only one man even looked our way, his glazed-over eyes not registering how disheveled and dirty we
were despite my best efforts to scrub up in the airport bathroom, before returning to his game. It was as if we were invisible. And while the renovation meant that everything was relatively new, to me it still seemed garish and loud.

“We can’t stay here,” I had begged Michael quietly, pulling on his arm. I looked over my shoulder at the regulars, who seemed to be growing grayer and saggier before my very eyes. “It’s too sad.”

He’d sighed, pulling me out of the way of the waitress bearing down with a tray of drinks.

“We need to gamble on the Strip to get access to the traffickers,” he explained quietly. “If we stay in a hotel there, though, we will never be able to let down our guard.” He searched my eyes to see if I understood. “I will always have to appear like this,” he whispered. “As your father. We will never be able to let down the charade. At least this way you can have some semblance of normalcy.” One corner of his mouth shot up in a sarcastic grin. “As normal as you can have in Las Vegas, anyway.”

I had nodded mutely. It was hard enough being here: half accomplice, half kidnapping victim. It was even weirder to look over, expecting to see a teenager, and instead see my dad. Only the blue eyes gave him away. If it was hard for me, I wondered what a relief it must be to Michael when he could finally slip out of that body, even if only for a few hours.

Then again, the person I knew as
my
Michael was just a disguise, too. Maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal to him. But it was to me. So I’d gone along with his plan.

Now, in our room, I rolled over and looked around. I was grateful that when we’d checked in, he’d managed to get us booked into a newer building across the street that was not connected to the casino. The room was modern, all crisp whites and blacks with
bold furniture and accents. It could have been a hotel room in Miami or New York. I could almost forget where we were and why we were here.

We’d drawn the shades against the burning sun, leaving the room shadowy. Only the faint glow from behind gave away that it was afternoon. And there, hunched over in the chair at the foot of my bed, was Michael.

I opened my eyes just a crack to look at him again. He hadn’t moved. My eyes scanned him quickly: the golden hair, the impossible tan even in the dead of winter. The way even a button-down shirt clung to his broad shoulders, accentuating every muscle in his lean, perfect body.

I was mildly relieved he had reverted to his normal human appearance after being forced to travel with him posing as my father, but my relief was short-lived as I took him in. He held his head in his hands as he stared absently at the muted television, lost in thought. Images flickered across the screen: fighting in some distant country, hostages at an embassy. The deep lines etched in Michael’s face and the shadows under his eyes seemed to grow deeper as he watched the chaos he was unable to stop. I felt a stab of pity, as well as one of guilt. I knew I should be afraid of him, and part of me was. But every minute he spent with me was time away from whatever God had ordained for him; time that would earn him punishment in the form of never-ending pain. It was evident from his face that the pain he was suffering—maybe all because of me—had become more intense.

I cleared my throat, waiting for him to reel his wandering mind back in before I spoke.

“You haven’t slept.”

He lifted his head and turned to me. For an instant, a shadow of a smile flickered across his face, and his eyes seemed to light
up with pleasure as he realized I was awake. For that instant, he looked like a slightly more rumpled version of the friend I’d always known. But just as quickly, the smile disappeared and his eyes shuttered his soul from my prying eyes. We might pretend nothing had changed, but we both were kidding ourselves.

He dropped his hands and pulled himself up in the chair, filling the room.

“I needed to keep an eye on things,” he answered.

“Things?”

His mouth constricted into a tight line. “You.”

A wave of irritation surged through me and I pushed back the pristine white comforter, swinging to my feet.

“You wasted your time,” I threw back at him. “You’ve made it perfectly clear what will happen if I try to run away. I don’t need a guard.”

He stared at me, and I remembered I had been sleeping in nothing but a long T-shirt. My face flushed. Self-conscious, I charged across the room, looking for a robe. Michael’s grim chuckle floated after me.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Especially now that Henri is gone, you need more looking after than ever.”

Unease crept over me at his mention of Henri, my Guardian Angel, and I stopped, my hand poised over the creamy white bathrobe that hung on the back of the bathroom door.

Don’t even think about telling him
, Henri’s warning rang in my ears.

Of course I couldn’t tell Michael that my Guardian Angel was still here with me. Henri was the only one telling me the truth, I reminded myself. The only one who might be able to stop Michael from killing me to prevent the Prophecy from coming true, to prevent the Fallen Ones from overtaking Heaven.

I shook my head, trying to clear out all the loyalty and trust I had felt for Michael—feelings that filled my head like so many cobwebs—and swallowed my bitter retort. I wrapped myself in the robe and came back to settle on the edge of the bed, my arms crossed.

“Now what?” I demanded.

Michael’s brow shot up but he ignored my icy tone. “The Librarian isn’t far from here. If we leave now, we can get to him before nightfall and find out what we need to about our Prophecy, and the Key.”

“No.”

“No?” His eyes flashed, but he did not move, waiting for my explanation. I swallowed hard and kept going.

“You promised we’d look for Maria. I won’t help you with the Prophecy until we’ve found her.”

He shook his head slightly. “You don’t know how long that could take. We can’t put everything else at risk on the hope that we find her.”

I pulled my folded arms closer to me and felt my lower lip go out in a pout. “No, you promised. Or was that just a ploy to get me on the plane without a fuss?”

He flushed with anger. I could see the little vein in his forehead throbbing, and I heard Henri whispering urgently,
Are you insane?
But I held my breath and waited for him to respond.

Michael stared hard at me, his eyes betraying nothing as we engaged in a silent test of wills. I couldn’t tell what complicated calculus was going on behind his hooded eyes; all I knew was that something—some sort of desperate wish to prove to myself that I was in control of the situation—was spurring me on.

“Fine,” he said, practically spitting the word. “You have no idea what you’re getting into, but we’ll do it your way. We’ll go out right now and start trying to hunt down those traffickers.”

My heart leapt a little. I hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

“We’ll
start
,” he continued, looking at me stone-faced to be sure I understood what he meant. “We can’t wait around before tracking down the Librarian, not with the Fallen on our tail. But we can get the ball rolling; see if we can make a connection. We’re going to have to start at the tables. And since I can’t leave you alone, you’re going to have to do your part, starting with your appearance. I’ll have to get the executive host to send up a few things that would be more appropriate for you to wear on the casino floor.”

“Executive host?” I asked, blinking. “Appropriate?”

“If you’re going to be with me downstairs, you need to look of age,” he cryptically answered, “even if you’re just watching me. And for our plan to work, we need to attract some attention.”

He picked up the receiver to the sleek phone next to him. Before he’d even punched a button he began speaking. “Yes, thank you. I do need some help and unfortunately, I am in a bit of a rush.” He watched me as he spoke. “My niece and her luggage appear to have been separated. I’d like you or one of your colleagues to pull together a selection of clothes for her; things that will be appropriate in the private salons on the Strip.” He ran his eyes carefully over my body. I wanted to shrink inside my robe. “I’d say a size two. Shoes a nine. If you can choose some things now, I’ll meet you to approve your choices before you bring them up. Thank you.”

I stared at him, flabbergasted.

“You’re just going to dress me up? Like some sort of … of … plaything? And this executive host person is going to jump just because you asked her to?”

He shrugged. “It’s perfectly normal here. Las Vegas is known for exceptional service,” he answered, ignoring my real point. “You’ll want to freshen up before she gets here.” With that, he unfolded
himself from the chair and strode across the room, wordlessly letting himself out.

I fumed my way through a shower, letting the rhythm of the water soothe me as I watched the last of the red Georgia clay wash away from my skin and spin down the drain. Over the water, I heard the door to the room open and close, then the muffled sound of Michael directing the “executive host”—whatever
that
was—to my closet. I waited in the bathroom until the door closed again and I was sure they were both gone before turning off the water, wrapping myself in the robe again, and padding over to the closet to see what they had brought up for me.

The once-empty closet was now packed with a tight row of hangers in garment bags and the occasional paper shopping bag, all with names of designers I recognized.

“Oh, no,” I murmured as I began ripping open the bags and flipping through the hangers. The little slips of tissue-thin fabric hanging there would scarcely cover me up; each one seemed worse than the last. I pushed my way through the lot, hoping to find something normal, but in vain. My Mark, I thought, panicking. None of these will cover my Mark. I delved into the shopping bags next, hoping to find something—a scarf, a sweater—anything that would cover my neck. Inside them were shoeboxes filled only with mile-high stilettos, platforms, and sandals.

There was a discreet knock at the door; Michael must have come back. I swung open the door, ready to launch into a tirade about the objectification of women. But I stopped, my mouth hanging open at the petite, suited woman standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Carmichael thought you might need some help,” she said, bustling in with a cart full of makeup and weird tools behind her. “I’m Margaret. I’ll be doing your hair and makeup.” She paused to cast an expert gaze over me and tutted her disapproval. “A young thing like you shouldn’t look so tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well. Nightmares,” I said quietly.

She arched a well-groomed brow and gave me a knowing look. I felt myself flushing at her unspoken insinuation.

“No matter,” she trilled, pushing her cart past me toward the bathroom. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

Oh, this should be fun
, Henri sniped.

I snapped my jaw shut in resignation and closed the door.

I’d managed to swallow my hurt and feigned enthusiasm for the fashion parade that had invaded my closet, finally settling for the least embarrassing of the dresses. As for the shoes, they were all death traps; I’d opted for the ones that looked the least uncomfortable. Then, I’d sat like a mannequin, swathed in my robe while Margaret did her dirty work.

What was for her only small talk felt to me like an inquisition, with me constantly on my guard lest I give something away. I’d parried her barrage of questions with vague answers, making up stories about my “uncle” that only made me bitter as I told them. I’d sat numbly as she’d plucked and waxed and subjected me to treatments I couldn’t even name. I had finally lulled myself into the rhythm of her gentle touch and mindless banter when she’d taken a brush to my damp hair. I’d frozen, suddenly alert to the risk.

“I’ll fix my own hair,” I’d mumbled, reaching up for the brush.

“Nonsense,” she’d cooed, gently swatting my hand away. “It’s all part of the service. Plus, the hair is my favorite part.”