The Aberration of Eden Pruitt, page 8
“Y-yes, ma’am,” the operator stammered.
They reached the bottom quickly—the elevator so fast and smooth it was hard to tell it was moving at all. With one last affronted look, the woman and her posse swept past them into the crowded lobby. Cameras flashed. Reporters descended.
Eden thanked the operator.
He blushed all the way up to his tuft of white hair, like people didn’t thank him often. It reminded Cass of the old woman at The Roast and her fallen change. Eden had been quick to help when nobody else had bothered. When nobody else had even noticed. But she had. Because that’s who Eden was. She saw people others didn’t. Befriended people others wouldn’t.
When they stepped off the elevator, she turned to Cass with a quirked eyebrow. “Do you know who that was?”
“The elevator operator?”
“The woman.”
“Should I?”
“She has over two million followers on Perk.”
“Why?”
“Because she sings. Songs people really like.”
Ah. So that explained the vague familiarity. He’d probably seen her in passing on magazine covers sold by street vendors, on the side of buses, on flashing billboards.
“Most guys your age are obsessed with her.”
Looking at Eden, Cass couldn’t help but think most guys his age were obsessed with the wrong woman.
“Her name’s Star.”
“That’s it?” He lifted his eyebrow dryly. “The whole thing?”
Eden bit back a smile, amusement sparkling in her eyes. And Cass—the hopeless fool—felt a swell of victory more powerful than anything he’d ever felt after a win in the ring.
12
Star was only the first celebrity they encountered.
The red carpet teemed with them inside the expansive lobby. A conglomeration of the Oscars and the Grammys and the ESPYS with a healthy dose of influential politicians and prize-winning professionals peppered throughout. Every variety of the rich and the famous posed for the cameras and interviewed with Concordia’s most well-known entertainment reporters while starry-eyed, over-stimulated lottery ticket winners ogled the A-listers behind the velvet stanchions, unable to believe their good fortune.
According to Dad, who was speaking in Eden’s ear, Mordecai had yet to pass through check-in. If he was here, he was in the crowded lobby. She searched the throng as they bypassed the reporters to a pair of beefy-looking bouncers scanning the incoming guests. One took care of the A-listers, who were swept inside without a wait. The other scanned the rest. Eden and Cass stood at the back of the line. The closer they got to the front, the tighter her stomach clenched.
Last night’s dream was still fresh in her mind—a nightmare in which security scanned Cassian’s retinas and a SWAT team descended, dragging him away. He wasn’t Dr. Beverly Randall-Ransom’s nephew. He was an infamous underground fighter wanted for murder. In the dream, Eden had remained in line, her entire body covered in a film of cold sweat. When they scanned her retinas, she was in the system as Ellery Forrester, a disturbed teenage runaway. They brought her to a holding cell where she waited for her parents. Only instead of Annette and Jack arriving, it was the dead man with the tattoos.
As if sensing her distress, Cassian placed his hand on the small of her back. The gesture didn’t calm her nerves, but it did distract her from the nightmare.
When they reached the front, Eden held her breath as the guard scanned her eyes. Then her body. He checked the screen and nodded in a bored sort of way, motioning for her to step forward.
She held her breath as the guard scanned Cassian.
With another bored nod, he let Cass through.
Eden exhaled.
“We’re in,” she whispered into her earpiece as Cassian came beside her, and together, they entered the ballroom.
Eden’s mouth went slack as she took in a scene straight from Cinderella. Not on a screen. Not virtually. But in actual, real life. All glitter and hanging stars and fancy food and sparkly drinks and handsome tuxedos and expensive jewelry and gowns so extravagant some bordered on obscene. It was a party fit for royalty. And there, in its center, like a king on his throne, sat the host—Oswin Brahm.
Cassian took her hand and led her through the ballroom to a set of double doors on the opposite side, where a pair of bodyguards stood sentry, their beefy hands folded in front of them, square faces devoid of expression. Eden looked down as they walked past them, out into a quieter hallway.
Cassian’s stride was confident, his grip on her hand firm. He stopped in front of the men’s room and slipped inside. Eden waited, her heart pounding. The hallway wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. There were guests loitering about and more bodyguards, too. She looked for a dark corner, a safe place where he could hand her the gun he had stashed and she could tuck it in the strap around her calf.
The bathroom door opened.
Cassian stepped outside with a troubled brow.
“What is it?” she asked.
His lips turned up into a perfunctory smile as he nodded at a gentleman walking past. “They aren’t there.”
Eden’s heart rate doubled.
Not there?
How could they not be there? Her attention lifted to the surveillance cameras. They were everywhere. Undoubtedly in the bathrooms, too. Had Cass been caught stashing the weapons? Were bodyguards on the lookout for him now?
Cassian nodded at another passerby, then escorted Eden back to the ballroom. “It’s going to be fine,” he whispered in her ear.
She took a deep, rattling breath and silently repeated his words. They would be fine. They would be fine. They would be fine. If he’d been caught on surveillance, surely they would have stopped him at the security check. And if ever a pair were equipped to succeed without the help of guns, they were it. She was indestructible and his fists might as well be registered.
They stood at the periphery of the ballroom, Cass alert beside her, listening carefully to a combination of directives and information. Still no sign of the man who held Eden’s freedom in his hands. The two of them attempted to blend in while they waited for his arrival. They tasted the food, sipped some drinks, mingled with acquaintances of Dr. Beverly Randall-Ransom.
“So,” a man who introduced himself as Dr. Fields said. “Beverly is your … aunt?”
It was the second time Cass had fielded the inquiry.
Beverly was Black.
Cassian, white.
And she’d never mentioned a nephew.
“Beverly’s late husband was my mother’s eldest brother,” Cass said in a straight, unaffected voice that wasn’t friendly, but wasn’t rude either. If mentioning his mother—even in a fictitious sense—bothered him, Eden couldn’t tell. His expression remained as unaffected as his voice.
“Ah, I see.” Dr. Fields took a sip of his Champagne. “It was a terrible tragedy, what happened to your uncle. But I suppose it’s what drove Beverly to the level of success she’s reached now.”
Not too far away, the point guard for the Chicago Bulls side-eyed Cassian like he recognized him, and Eden’s stomach clenched into a hard, tight fist. What if he made a habit of betting on the Underground like Mordecai made a habit of betting on the Underground? What if he alerted a reporter outside or whispered to a bodyguard standing by the doors?
“That guy over there,” she imagined him saying. “He’s an illegal fighter. How’d he get in here?”
Her nerves wound tighter, and the small talk with Dr. Fields was tedious. Which was probably why Cassian politely excused himself and asked Eden to dance, where they could avoid the idle chatter and covertly survey the massive room. Mordecai still hadn’t checked in, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. In fact, there was a good chance that as soon as he saw her name on the guest list, he’d begun concocting a plan that didn’t involve him checking in at all.
Eden’s heart skipped as Cassian’s hand slid to her back. He drew her close until her body was flush against his, her lips a mere centimeter from his neck, where his pulse thrummed and warmth radiated from his skin. The air in her chest crackled with heat. She inhaled the enticing scent of his cologne, completely forgetting the point guard for the Chicago Bulls and the missing guns. It would be so easy to close her eyes. Get lost. Imagine for one heady moment that she was not invincible and there was no Mordecai.
Cass’s thumb slid to the spot where her waist met her ribcage and a shiver rippled deep down in her abdomen.
Now was not the time for her eyes to roll into the back of her head. If she didn’t say something—distract herself in some way—they might. She regarded the cameras over Cassian’s shoulder, imagining Erik spotting her in the background. Rewinding the footage. Pausing. Staring. Blinking. Wondering if his eyes were playing tricks. Eden swallowed. “Cleo thinks all of this is smoke and mirrors.”
Cassian exhaled—a short, amused huff, his breath tickling her ear. “That sounds like Cleo.”
“She thinks The Attack put us to sleep. And the further we get from it, the more we start to stir awake.” Her thoughts flitted to Cleo’s map. The uptick in riots. Not a single one of them shared with the public because the government controlled all forms of media. She still couldn’t process it—the blatant duplicity involved in such cover-ups. How easily Eden herself had been deceived. “She thinks the pipe bombs in the mail are a ploy to keep us in hibernation. And this ball is a ploy to keep us happily distracted.”
Cass turned her in a circle, his posture alert as he perused the crowd.
Eden’s hands slid to his shoulders. She leaned back and peered up at him—this boy who surely had opinions. “What do you think?”
“I think there are times when Cleo’s theories hit uncomfortably close to the truth.”
“You believe the government was responsible for The Attack?”
“I think the government wields unity like a weapon.”
He sounded very much like Cleo, who had once referred to unity as code for silencing the oppressed and preserving the power dynamics. Inside Cleo’s dorm room the first time they met. “So you think unity is a bad thing.”
“When it’s valued over truth and justice.”
Eden’s brow furrowed.
“The people who hold tightest to unity are usually the ones with the most to lose.”
“Should truth and justice prevail.”
Cassian nodded.
Cleo’s words rang within his. The people with the most to lose were the ones in power. Which included the government. And almost everyone in this ballroom.
“Was Erik one of the guys?” Cassian asked.
She blinked dumbly at the conversational pivot—no doubt intentional. The topic she’d chosen for distraction wasn’t a safe one in such a public venue. Not to mention, her parents were listening. “One of the guys?”
He nodded to Star, the singer who was currently laughing with Oswin Brahm and his pretty young wife.
“Oh. No. Star isn’t his … type.” She smiled. “Erik was actually obsessed with Cleo’s mom.”
Cassian quirked his eyebrow.
“If he knew I was here on behalf of Dr. Beverly Randall-Ransom …” She used the doctor’s full name, a call back to the time Cassian poked fun at her. When they rode in the back of the neurosurgeon’s fancy car on their way to Angelica’s. “He’d probably lose his mind.”
The crowd shifted around them.
Cameras followed as Oswin led his wife onto the dance floor.
Eden glanced toward the doors. “What if he doesn’t show?” Her life spanned in front of her—years and years of waiting, of watching, of knowing he was out there somewhere, biding his time until he could make another move. Until he could force her to do what she didn’t want to do. The prospect left Eden feeling like she might crawl out of her skin. “What if we never find him?”
“We will,” Cass said, his golden eyes filled with conviction.
Eden looked at the doors again.
Mordecai had to be looking for her. For Barrett. For Jane. Eden’s name was on the guest list, available to the public. Surely he wouldn’t have missed it. Surely he wouldn’t pass up such an opportunity. Her mind circled around the same frustrating questions it had been circling for weeks now. He had treated her like a prized possession. Like a creepy obsession. He kidnapped Barrett and Jane only to put them to sleep and store them away on two cots in an underground compound. What did he want with them? What was he up to?
She slid her fingers beneath the lapels of Cassian’s tuxedo.
His breath hitched, making her wonder if she was every bit as distracting to him as he was to her. It was a distraction that didn’t wane with time—but grew.
So did her worry.
The night was slipping away, and they had yet to find their target.
Her thoughts turned despairing. Her body on sensory overload. Everything became too much—the music, the crowd, the intrusive cameras, the intermittent communication from Jack and her father—no sign of him, no sign of him, no sign of him. The conversations and the laughter and the tinkling of silverware and the clatter of plates. All of it spun around her, making her dizzy, making her sick. Until a faint, far-away whisper arose from the jumbled din.
Come.
She cocked her head. Where had it come from—her parents? Jack? It didn’t sound like anything she’d heard all night. But there it was again—a soothing voice that made her stop.
Cassian stopped with her, glancing over his shoulder at the vague spot captivating her interest. But before he could ask what it was, her father’s voice came through the Bluetooth. “He’s here.”
Cassian pressed his fingers against his ear. “Where?”
“Watch the doors. His retinas were just scanned.”
Eden’s heart raced as Cassian pulled her off the dance floor. “Do you see him?”
“Not yet,” her father said.
Up above, on the sixtieth floor, her parents and Jack were monitoring the security cameras and Concordia’s news coverage. Down below, in the ballroom, Cassian’s attention swiveled from the main entrance to several side doors.
Eden accidentally bumped into two excited girls clutching pens and an autograph book. She mumbled an apology, feeling strangely off balance. Like she had stood too fast and now she was dizzy, only she hadn’t been sitting.
Come.
There.
Again.
For a third time.
This one louder, more insistent.
“Eden?” Cassian said.
“Did you hear that?” she asked.
He cocked his head. “Hear what?”
“I think …” She shook her own, attempting to clear it. But the dizziness only grew. The fog in her brain, too. She cupped her forehead, her body overly warm. “I think I need to use the restroom.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
The furrow in his brow deepened.
Eden began walking toward one of the side exits.
Cassian followed, communicating with her father and Jack as they went.
“That’s him,” Jack said as they passed through the doors, out into an expansive hallway. “Right there.”
“He’s in the north lobby, opposite side,” Eden’s father said. “Where are you two going?”
Before Cassian could answer, Eden pushed inside the nearest ladies’ room, feeling unreasonably irritated—a staticky heat that scratched in her lungs. She didn’t need an escort to the bathroom. She was perfectly capable of going by herself.
She stopped in front of the sink, ignoring the chatter in her ear as she turned on the water.
Come.
Her hands jerked away like the water was scalding.
The lady beside her—heavyset, red-cheeked, dressed in an emerald green sequined gown—gave her an unfocused smile, the kind people gave when they’d had too much to drink. “That is a gorgeous necklace.”
Eden touched the diamonds around her throat.
“This is some party, isn’t it?” The lady hiccupped, then covered a childish giggle with her pudgy fist. “The Champagne tastes like fizzy gold. Probably costs as much, too. And the food!” She leaned closer and shot Eden an exaggerated wink, then turned to her reflection and ran her hands down her smooth but ample waistline. “It’s a good thing I’m wearing this body shaper under here. Cost a small fortune, but worth every penny.”
The hair on Eden’s arm stood on end.
Something was about to happen.
She could feel it. Sense it.
As if calling the premonition forth, the lights overhead flickered. The crystals on the bathroom chandelier tinkled.
The lady looked up.
Another flicker.
Once, twice …
The bathroom went dark.
The woman beside her gasped.
The live music and the buzzing conversation outside ground to a halt. Goosebumps crawled across her skin as an alarmed voice spoke in her ear. “Eden? Eden, do you copy?”
She didn’t have time to answer.
Before she could process the power outage, a deafening blast rattled the walls. The lady shrieked and fell to the floor as the chandelier came crashing down.
13
The voices in Eden’s ear went to static.
A firm hand wrapped around her wrist. “We need to move.”
It was Cassian.
In the ladies’ room.
Pulling her from the bathroom, past the lady on the floor, where party guests shoved out into the smoky hallway and shock had morphed into pandemonium. Chaos and hysteria all around as people coughed and screamed and pushed maniacally toward exits.
Something terrible had happened.
There was a grotesque smoldering hole where one of the ballroom walls had been.
And yet, Eden processed it in a fog. In a cloud. A thick bubble. She was there, but none of it penetrated as Cassian’s grip tightened on her wrist and he cleared a path through the scattering crowd. The sprinkler system kicked on, adding water to the panic. And blood. There was blood. Eden could see it running down people’s faces. She could see it pooling around fallen bodies. She watched as Cassian bent over a dead bodyguard, his face gruesomely disfigured, and divested him of his gun.
