Revelation

Book 3: The Guardians

by Katie Klein

Genres: YA Coming of Age; YA Dystopian; YA Paranormal; YA Romance

Synopsis

Genesis Green's life is unraveling at the seams. The Council has stripped her protection, Viola has taken Seth, and she and Carter have fled South Marshall. When an opportunity to save her fallen angel arises, she'll have one chance to find and eliminate the most powerful demon walking the earth.

Enter Luke Castellani—charming, dangerous, compelling—someone who can give Genesis everything she desires.

With her life (and soul) on the line, the greatest, final sacrifice will be made to put an end to the evil threatening her world.

Release date: June 1, 2012

Print pages: 185

Sample

ONE

My eyes open, lifting to the night sky, hundreds of thousands of tiny stars poking through an inky blackness. The longer I stare the more that appear, as if from nowhere, entire galaxies emerging from the vastness. I pull myself upright, hand sinking into earth, and, as I rise, my fingers curl instinctively, clenching a fistful of sand. A rush of water thunders in my ears—waves pounding the shore—and a familiar ache grips my chest.

Home.

A figure approaches, its wraith-like, ethereal glow illuminating the space between us. I stand, legs sinking beneath me, wobbling and unsteady. Wind thrashes my hair, whipping it in my eyes, lashing my face.

I shove it away, blinking, searching for my voice. "Who are you?"

He stops, and we stand silent, still, eyes focused on one another.

A devastating awareness washes over me. "You're one of them, aren't you? An Angel of Death."

No response.

"Are you taking me to Hell?"

Nothing.

"Because I'm not going," I assure him, finding strength in this unwillingness to confirm my newest and greatest fear—that I'll die before I can save Seth, the angel who lost his place in Heaven for me. "I'm not leaving. Not until I find him. After that you can take me anywhere you want. But I have a job to finish first, and I won't let anyone stop me."

"It isn't your time," he says, voice cool, matter of fact.

My jaw tightens at the realization. I'm not dead. I'm not dying. Not going to Hell. Not tonight, anyway. "Then why are you here?" I ask.

An audacious smile. "To glimpse the one who will change the world."

A furious wind blows. I struggle to inhale, choking on salty air, the pressure mounting in this star-swept sky. I restrain whatever hair I can grasp, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"You're chosen. Called to a higher purpose."

And suddenly the beach is full of them, an endless, gleaming assembly. A gentle hand brushes my shoulder. I turn toward Seth, and that faint glow emanating from the Guardians now radiates from me. I'm one of them.

One by one they fade, disappearing from earth, slipping into shadows.

"What does he mean?" I ask Seth, shouting beyond the roar of waves—the impending storm. "I don't understand."

But, when I blink again, everyone has vanished. I'm alone.

I awake with a start, gasping, suffocating on nothing, desperate for a breath that will satisfy. Fingers feel along the top of the nightstand, fumbling, searching for inhaler as my chest tightens. I force the air out of my lungs and take a quick puff, holding the medicine as I count to ten.

It's getting worse.

I drag fingers through tangled hair, catching knots and snarls. There's barely any left. It's just . . . gone. Everything is gone.

My head hits the pillow, and I wipe my tired eyes with the base of my palms, finding them cool and wet.

It's like it never ends.

The room swims into focus, a shiver traveling the length of my spine. I draw the feather-filled comforter all the way to my chin, but the frigid mountain air refuses to dissolve into heat. I roll on my side, fluff the pillow, evoking images of sunlight and warmth and summer. But there's only darkness. The hugeness of the empty bed, swallowing me whole.

I sit up, head pounding, gather the bedding and haul it to the living room. I adjust the thermostat in the hallway, step softly, following the sound of Carter's quiet snoring. My bed is made on the floor between couch and coffee table, and I wrap the comforter around my body, curling into it.

Carter rolls over, blankets rustling.  

And I wait for it. Every night like the one before.

"You can have the couch," he whispers, voice thick with sleep. "I'll take the floor."

"I'm fine." But the truth is: I don't deserve the couch, to be comfortable, to feel safe. Not after what I've done—what I let happen. Sleep should never come so easy.

"You sure?" he asks.

"Go to sleep, Carter."

His fingertips find my cheek in the darkness, brushing it softly.

I watch the ceiling, waiting for exhaustion to consume me, for this world to drift away. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. It all feels the same.

I close my eyes, breaths slow and even, willing sleep.

And, just before I slip under, a voice: "Don't worry, Gee. We'll get him back."

 

TWO

I shiver beneath the ten-dollar sweatshirt purchased from a gas station during our hasty desertion of South Marshall. The signs of early fall are everywhere. Cooler nights and mornings. Leaves slipping out of green and into reds and oranges and yellows.

The deck overlooks the mountain range, peaks rimmed with fog. A hawk swoops low and circles back again, soaring above the jagged treeline. It's beautiful here. Quiet. Peaceful.

I lift a mug to my lips, swallowing a mouthful of bitter, black coffee—something to keep me going. The cup warms my hands, liquid steaming in the cool air.

The sliding glass door opens behind me.

"I know," Carter says, stepping onto the porch. "I will." A pause before he tells the caller goodbye, then he slides the cell phone into his pocket, heaving an exhausted sigh.

"Your mom?"

He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand, eyes tightening, frustrated. "Yeah."

The Flemings are clueless. No idea where we are, what we're doing. All they know is that Carter and I are together. That we're okay. I hear his conversations, flippant responses, playing this entire thing off as nothing. A chance to get away. To experience something new.

The unsung hero suits him.

I take another swig of coffee, mouth bending in disapproval.  

"I was thinking," I finally say. "We should probably go to town, you know? I mean, we could use coats. Warmer clothes." I run my fingers through my hair, tugging the ends. "A real haircut?"

I pour the remaining coffee over the railing and we head into the valley. It's silent on the way down, roads twisting and turning beneath us.

"I don't know how much we'll find here," Carter says, worried eyes scanning ramshackle buildings—a single row on either side of a tree-lined Main Street. A post office. Drug store. Town Hall. A novelty shop. A thrift store.

"There's a salon right here," I say, homing in on a neglected storefront squished between a laundromat and a Mexican bakery.

Carter pulls over, parking along the curb, and we follow the sidewalk, morning sun peeking over mountain, striping fragments of the lane in a glorious yellow-white haze.

"Are you sure you don't want me to wait for you?" he asks, hesitating, studying the faded Heavenly Touch Hair Salon painted cursive across the window. 

"No, it's fine. I'll meet you at the car when I'm done."

A cheerful bell jingles overhead, announcing my arrival, prattling voices fading as I step inside. An older woman with saggy cheeks, lips pulled to a frown, sneaks a sideways glance as her hair is rolled. Another, already rolled and waiting beneath the dryer, eyes me severely, assessing from behind a magazine.

My nose wrinkles, revolting against the acrid smell of at-home perm. And I think of my mom, sitting low on a stool in our kitchen of the month, pinching the ends of a bleach-stained towel, protecting her shoulders as I paper and coil. My throat shrinks. I scratch the base of my neck, pull my sweatshirt sleeves tighter, taking in the brown paneled walls. The olive-colored sinks and exposed plumbing. The shabby linoleum floor, cracked and curling at the edges.

"Welcome to Heavenly Touch," a woman says, scissors snipping the ends of a customer's thin waves. "What can I do you for?" She has bangs. Big bangs. Fuchsia lipstick. And for a moment it's like I've stepped into another world—another decade at the very least. Time standing frozen at 1980.

This doesn't look promising.

"I, um, need a haircut?"

Her smile widens, friendly. "We can do that. In fact, Madison is free all mornin'. Come on, Maddy!" she calls. "Got yourself a walk-in!"

A girl emerges from the back, duly unimpressed, lumbering slowly. She can't be a day older than me—barely out of high school, maybe younger. 

"You can have a seat in that last chair over there," she says, nodding her head as she swipes a towel from the rack against the wall.

My body sinks into vinyl, stuffing oozing from gashes at seams and punctures. Maddy wraps a cape around my body, runs a comb through my hair. Based on the frown reflected in the mirror, she's not pleased with whatever's going on back there.

A rush of heat floods my cheeks, blushing my skin. "It was an accident," I explain. "I was in a hurry."

She slants a look toward the mirror, flat brown eyes meeting mine. "You want me to re-color, too?"

A shoulder lifts, feigning indifference. "Yeah, sure. I mean, if you have time."

"Are you sold on the black?"

"Just keep it dark."

 

*          *          *

 

The keys rattle, crashing, sliding across kitchen counter as I pass, scrambling for the bathroom, a deep, angry purpose propelling me forward.

"It's not bad!" Carter yells, trailing, footsteps heavy, thudding against carpet.

I grab a dry towel from the bar beside the tub and twist the hot water nozzle, ignoring him.

"It's cute. And stylish. And it looks really good on you!"

The water isn't even heated before I'm plunging beneath it, icy blades pricking my scalp. I pull back, skin numb with shock, excess dripping from my forehead. I shut the water off and stagger to my feet, ripping open drawer after drawer, searching, until I uncover it: Carter's electric razor.

Perfect.

He doubles forward, lunging for it, grasping the implications. I react instinctively, blocking him, driving his arm away. At least I know I have some fight left in me.

"Come on, Genesis," he begs. "This is crazy! Don't do this."

"It's gone! The rest might as well come off, too!"

"It looks fine!"

"It's awful! I look hideous!"

"You never cared what anyone thought before," he reminds me.

My eyes sting with tears, drops of water from my hair trickling down my cheeks, gathering beneath my chin. "I don't care now."

"Then what's the big deal?"

I can't. I can't even look at myself.

During my momentary lapse into pity and self-loathing, he confiscates the razor, snatches it from my fingers, holds it high above us. "I know better than to tell you you're over-reacting," he begins. "But wait. Just . . . sleep on it. See how you feel in the morning. If you hate it, I'll take you to a real salon. We'll go out of town."

My jaw smarts, tightening. "Or you can give it back and I'll take care of it myself for free."

He roots around the drawers, keeping the razor out of reach. "Here," he says, producing a lean, white tube. "Try this before you go all G. I. Jane on me."

"What is it?"

"Something my mom picked up from her stylist."

I watch him through the mirror, dagger eyes, but I don't take it from him.

He heaves an exasperated sigh, tosses the razor into the hallway, away from me. "Jesus. Come here." He squeezes a dab of the lotion-like liquid into his palm, rubs it into my hair. "Yes, it's short. Yes, it's different. But once you learn how to work with it, it'll be fine. See?" He sweeps what's left of my bangs to the side, faces the mirror. "You look great."

I tilt my head, examining the scar from our accident, the shiny channel that still refuses to grow hair. 

"I look like a guy."

"You don't. You look fun. And sexy. Like a post-Harry Emma Watson."

I stare at my reflection, at this strange girl gazing back. Dark. Haunted. "I don't even look like me," I say, the barest of whispers.

"I know," he replies, tone, features, expression—everything about him—softening. "That was the point, remember? You'll get used to it. Give it time."

Time. That's the freaking problem. The time. Always advancing. Leaping forward. Widening the distance between us. I want to stop it. To rewind time. I want to go back. To him. Them. Seth and his relentless protests, my safety his only concern, even after it cost him his place in Heaven. To training. Mara. How she pushed me to be better. And then better than that. And Joshua, appearing out of nowhere. And I'm scared. I'm scared I'm going to forget. That I'm going to forget Seth. What he did for me. I'm scared I won't have a chance to make it right. And, until Viola comes for me, I don't even know where to begin—if making things right is even possible.

I can't do this. I don't want this world without them.

"Please don't cry," Carter begs.

"I'm not crying," I mutter, swiping thumbs beneath my eyes, lungs shuddering as I inhale. "And I don't have time."