Reawakened (The Reawakened Series) (6 page)

As the driver turned the corner, bringing Central Park back into view, I asked him to drop me off at the Hotel Helios, my home. When I was young we’d lived in the suburbs and my parents would take the train into Manhattan every day. But as soon as my mother got her big promotion and my father scored a huge moneymaking deal, they traded in our upscale, more-rooms-than-we-knew-what-to-do-with suburban home for an even more upscale, snooty penthouse that was easily ten times the price and had even more rooms that we never used.

There were definite perks to living in Manhattan, and even more perks to living in a hotel—like maid service, room service at all hours, doormen, valets, access to the hotel pool, the steam room, and the gym. Still, it was hard for me to think of this residence as a home.

The streets of New York were constantly filled with noise. A drilling, jackhammering, honking, police-whistling, bus-squeaking, and exhaust-hissing cacophony that never faded. Then there was also the fact that “homes” in NYC came with apartment numbers and shared walls with various eateries, or, in my case, floor levels and room service. And then add to that, that my parents preferred to keep our residence looking magazine perfect, stiff, and unlived in. I didn’t crave a place where the grass was greener—heck, I just wanted grass, period. It was no wonder I felt a bit disenchanted.

To me, a home was a quiet place with a yard, a fence, and a dog. And not one of those sissy dogs that ride in purses, either. A real home needed a real dog, like maybe a German shepherd or a Doberman—a big dog that would slobber all over its owner, dig up the yard, and wait patiently by the window to welcome its master home.

Now, my grandmother’s farm was the perfect place for a dog. I had fond memories of chasing her various pets through fields of tall grass, wet noses being pushed into my hands, the smell of sun and wind and wood and fur as I kissed the tops of their heads and played with their ears. She’d had several dogs over the years, but her last dog, Bilbo, had recently died of old age and she didn’t have the heart to replace him yet.

As soon as the driver pulled up, Herb, the hotel doorman, made his way over and opened my door.

“Did you have a nice day, Miss Young?” he asked politely.

I allowed him to help me out. “Herb, it was one of the worst days of my entire existence. You wouldn’t even believe me if I told you,” I said as I squeezed his hand.

Chuckling, Herb walked me to the hotel’s golden doors. “I’d believe anything you told me. You aren’t one of those dramatic young women always vying for attention.”

I laughed. “Well, drama can sneak up on you, Herb. I have officially received more attention today than I’d ever want. The result is a killer migraine and a hankering for chocolate. Have a nice evening.”

“You too, Miss Young. I hope you feel better.” He gave me a puzzled look before opening the door.

“Me too,” I replied over my shoulder as I entered the hotel.
When did the lights get to be so bright?
I squinted to minimize the stabbing pain behind my eyeballs as I made my way through the lobby toward the private elevators, where Stan stood guard and let me up to floor fifty-two.

There was nothing modest about the place where I lived. My parents owned the entire floor and had spared no expense in decorating it with highly fashionable pieces—rugs selected by famed interior decorators, art that was carefully chosen not only to complement the rooms but also to show potential clients, tastefully, just how much money we had, and a big-enough-to-get-lost-in refrigerator disguised to look like an expensive cabinet—items that were as cold and impersonal as the rooms themselves. My bedroom being the only exception. That was the only place I felt comfortable enough to kick my shoes off and drop my keys on the table.

One of the only purchases my parents had made that I actually liked was a Chihuly chandelier, which hung in the dining room. It felt chaotic somehow, which was a very unique feeling in my otherwise straitlaced life. The softly lit golden balls, drawn curlicue ribbons, and twirled shells had a wild kind of beauty that beckoned me to stretch beyond myself, to use the heat of experience to shape the grains of sand in the emotional desert that was my life into something as rich and precious as the Chihuly’s spun glass.

As I entered the kitchen, I called out, “Marcella, are you here?” The only sound I heard in reply was the fading echo of my voice in this empty tomb of a home. Selecting a perfectly chilled diet ginger ale from the fridge, I headed to my room, my sanctuary in what I liked to call “the ice palace.” When I entered, I let my bag fall heavily to the floor and leaned over to undo the buckles on my sandals.

I loved my room. I’d decorated it in cream, ivory, and the palest shades of pink. The bed and nightstand were a tawny gold and carved in a style reminiscent of Victorian England. The posts at each corner of the bed curved in beautiful arches, with sheer curtains hanging from them in soft folds.

One side of the room was floor-to-ceiling windows, which led out to my own private veranda with a magnificent view of Central Park. The opposite wall was offset with geometric shapes: frosted glass squares and rectangles in various sizes that were lit from behind with muted pink lights.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the huge gilt mirror convinced me that a bath was absolutely necessary before I climbed into bed. I padded across the room, my feet sinking into the thick carpet. I staggered toward the bathroom, massaging the back of my neck along the way.

My shoulders were stiff and sore, especially the left one. The throbbing in my head was getting worse, and to top it all off, my skin felt slightly swollen and itchy. I ran my tongue over my lips and tasted a coppery tang, as if my lips had been bleeding.
Maybe I’m allergic to something,
I thought.
Probably all that ancient dust in the museum.

I popped four ibuprofen, then stared at my reflection and got an up-close view of just how haggard I looked from every possible angle.

“How about that? The Twisted Sisters were right. I do look like something the cat coughed up.”

Praying that the ibuprofen would work its magic quickly, I sank into the luxurious tub and commenced scrubbing. The hot, bubbly water made me realize just how tired I was. With my head cushioned by a thick towel, I fell asleep. It didn’t seem like I’d been out for very long when my eyes suddenly snapped open.

The windows were frosted for privacy, so light could come in and heat would be deflected but no one could see inside. The spa-style shower, closed off with a wall of etched glass, functioned in a similar way, letting in light but allowing only an opaque view of the person bathing.

I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights because I wanted to enjoy the warmth from the setting sun, a rare treat in a town full of skyscrapers. That was one of the biggest perks about living in a skyscraper near Central Park. The dimming light must have been playing tricks on my eyes, though, because, for a moment, it seemed as if someone was there, moving in the shadows.

After staring fixedly at the spot for a solid minute, I decided it must have been the clouds that caused the shifting shades; either that or the long shadows of the buildings across the park. I settled my head back against the towel. “Paranoid much?” I mumbled.

I tried to relax and enjoy, but the perfectly warm water chilled me. Darkness seemed to leach the sunlight from the room, and I suddenly felt as if I were entombed in a large sarcophagus instead of reclining in a spacious tub. A strong scent of incense mixed with the sharpness of coppery blood. I heard the faint sound of someone sobbing and then a scream. Gasping, I sat straight up, causing water to slosh in violent waves that spilled over the rim and onto the marble platform.

With a burst of energy, I scrambled out of the tub and stood staring at it in horror. Trembling, water pooling at my feet, I pushed my dripping hair out of my eyes, and tried to calm my breathing and slow my heart rate.
What is wrong with me?
I’d never heard of migraines causing hallucinations, but I supposed it could happen. An even more logical explanation would be that I’d nodded off and had a bad dream.

Maybe I have low blood sugar.
I’d had only tea before heading off to the museum.
That must be it. Low blood sugar,
I rationalized, chalking the experience up to delusions due to hunger, but even after pushing the crazy things that had happened that day to the back of my mind, I couldn’t deny that something very strange was going on.

Unplugging the drain and deciding to let our housemaid, Marcella, clean up—something very abnormal for me, and something I knew she would devise a secret punishment for later—I wrapped a thick towel around my hair, slid on my plush robe, and headed to my room, taking a seat at my desk.

The first thing I did was extricate the giant mishmash of papers that I’d stuffed into my bag when I made my hasty retreat from the museum. After sorting and stacking them into neat little piles and placing them on the corner of my desk for easy access, I felt much better. There was something about those piles, along with lists that had heavy black checkmarks and calendars with full days crossed off, that gave me a sense of control and, even more, a sense of achievement.

Perhaps I was more my parents’ daughter than I liked to believe. The organized me, the meticulous me, the good little soldier, fit perfectly into their lifestyle, and I seemed to find comfort of sorts in the routine. Though in my heart I longed for some chaos and adventure, the truth was that I very much depended on order to function.

Opening my notebook, I found the page where I’d begun the sketch of Amon. I tried to tackle drawing his face but kept erasing his features, frustrated that I couldn’t get them right.

Why I was so picky about Amon, I didn’t know. Eventually, I gave up and just drew the outline of his head.

I heard the ding of the elevator, followed by the staccato clicking of high-heeled shoes indicating that my mother was home. I’d been focused on Amon’s sketch far longer than I thought. My mother ducked her head into my room, and the flowery fragrance she always wore tickled my nose.

“Mother,” I said, not lifting my head from my sketch.

She entered my room and put a hand on my robe-clad shoulder. “How was your day? Herb said it was a rough one.”

I shrugged in response and tried to remind myself that Herb was just looking out for me, while Mother picked up a college brochure, homing in on the one she found least desirable. I could almost hear the frown in her words as she perused the paper. “I see you’ve been giving some thought to your choices.”

“Yes. I haven’t decided on anything yet, though.”

Squeezing my shoulder in a way I found more controlling than comforting, she said, “I’m sure you’ll select the right option.” She undid the clasp on her necklace and began taking off her bracelets as she queried, “How did your meeting about the senior class project go?”

“It ended abruptly.”

“So I heard.”

Twisting in my chair to look at her, I asked, “Who called?”

“Cassie’s mom. Cassie was worried about you. She said you left the meeting to help some boy in the street?”

To the layperson, my mother probably sounded genuinely concerned, but I felt the bitter sting of her disapproval and immediately attempted to placate her. “It wasn’t as dramatic as she made it sound.”

“Oh?” was the only response. A single syllable that conveyed a myriad of meanings carefully dropped into the conversation. It was an old television producer’s trick used to make guests uncomfortable enough to fill the silence, and potentially hang themselves in the effort. Though I was aware of my mother’s interview technique, I rose to the bait.

“She’s right that there was a boy in the street, but what she didn’t say was that there had been an accident. He was badly hurt.”

“And you were attempting to help,” she said with a raised eyebrow, more an accusation than a question.

“I didn’t feel there was a choice,” I remarked, giving a direct, if not fully truthful, answer.

“Weren’t there any police around? Didn’t someone call an ambulance?”