Chapter 32
32
I’m pretty groggy as we land on a beach that a sign informs me is in St. Augustine, Florida. Rafe folds up the boat onto his back and navigates me through a cave entrance to an Atlas station—supposedly the first ever built in the New World when the line was first being constructed.
Though the Arcadia station is locked down, the rest of the train line is still running, and no one who sees us board asks any questions.
“Aren’t you worried that you’ll be recognized?” I ask.
“I never assumed we wouldn’t be discovered,” he responds. “Genesis will soon notice the missing magneto gun and put all the pieces together. Our only rush has been to get to New York before they stop us.”
The trip to the New York station is short, and we’re soon pulling into the familiar platform, the air locks closing behind us.
We exit the City Hall station—the non-fun way, up a simple elevator into an inconspicuous office building where every door needs a separate special code—and then… we’re back in my city. The Brooklyn Bridge towers over a beautiful spring day. I don’t know why this surprises me since it’s spring in Arcadia too, but last time I was here, the city was wearing its winter coat of frost and holiday decorations.
There’s a familiar concert of honking horns, blaring sirens, and shouting pedestrians. It smells like street food, exhaust, and garbage—but in the best way. It’s so alive . The Maker population is tiny, nothing in comparison to the bustling life of New York City.
“You look happy,” Rafe says somewhat begrudgingly as he darts out of the path of an oncoming man who is texting aggressively without looking where he’s going.
“I love it here. Have you spent any time in Manhattan?”
“No. The only time I’ve spent in the provincial world has been in Europe.”
I feel my own grin stretching wide. “Well, then, I’m going to have to show you around.” Finally, we’re on my turf. I want him to see my world. I want him to see how amazing it can be and that the people have as much depth and creativity as Makers.
“Let’s first get to the hotel, clean up, and get rid of these bags.” Rafe booked us a hotel room, and though I have no idea how he managed to do so without internet, I’m glad for his foresight as we are a total disaster—sweaty and dirty from the climb, damp and muddy from the boat.
“Great. We can take the subway.”
“Let’s get a taxi.”
“The subway is a classic New York City experience, and today you are a tourist.”
“And slow and dirty. From my understanding, a yellow cab is also a classic New York City experience. And I have money that I’m willing to spend.” Despite the Maker world not using regular money, Rafe is fabulously wealthy in the provincial world. The Makers—the Vanguards especially—have numerous old business holdings for when money is necessary.
“Mass transit is better for the environment.”
He is silent for a beat. “Okay. But in this instance, I am willing to forgo my own personal morals for the sake of convenience. Let’s get a cab.”
For a boy who’s grown up in a world without proper money, he sure does know how to spend it. And for someone who has never been to New York City, he sure knows how to live it large here. The hotel we pull up to is the kind I’ve never noticed as a local, because I have never had reason to be on such a polished block.
As we walk in, I feel like a complete impostor, especially being so dirty and underdressed. I’m sure that at any moment I’ll be informed that this shiny lobby is only available to guests of the hotel, which I must clearly not be. But everyone is extremely polite.
Especially the receptionist. She’s immaculately beautiful and flirts unabashedly with Rafe, smiling her perfect toothy smile and flipping her perfect blond ponytail. She even says we can have our room right away although it’s hours before check-in. But when she mentions that her shift ends at four thirty and slips Rafe her phone number, I get pissed. What’s her problem? Isn’t it obvious that we’re here together? We’re not actually together, but she has no way to know that. Rude.
“I thought you hate provincials,” I say to Rafe. “But you don’t seem to be having any trouble making friends.” I hear the grouchiness in my voice.
“I’m just doing my part to fit in,” Rafe replies. “But I must say, I find your jealousy… hot.” He tries to put his arm around my waist, and I slap it away.
Rafe knows how to speak to all the fancy staff and flash all the right smiles and all the right plastic cards. He knows how to be escorted by the bellhop to our tenth-floor room and how to tip him without being the slightest bit awkward.
I’m insanely resentful. This is my world, and he’s doing it better than me. But it’s hard to stay annoyed when I see our room.
It’s opulent and cozy at the same time. Lots of crisp white and rich gold. There are two queen-size marshmallow-soft beds and a view of New York that makes it look like the sanitized movie version of the city instead of the real one I grew up in.
The bathroom has more gold and more white with beautiful marble tiles and a bath big enough to swim in. Once I’ve dumped all my things, I take a luxurious shower with sweet-smelling soaps and towels made of clouds. It’s only when we’re both scrubbed clean and wearing fresh clothing that I realize that I’m alone in a hotel room with His Highness Raphael Vanguard.
“I’m famished,” Rafe says. “Let’s go get some food.” Well, that solves that problem… for now.
Rafe stands out on the streets of New York. Even though he’s wearing his regular-people clothes—jeans and a T-shirt and his leather jacket, which I did eventually return to him—with his looks and his build and his man bun, admiring eyes are constantly drawn to him. I see the assumption that he must be someone famous, an actor or a model, because regular people just don’t look that good. Those eyes all then slide over to me questioningly, then quickly away when they realize I’m no one special. It’s an incredibly familiar feeling. The exact way I always feel alongside Kor. It’s been months since I’ve felt this invisible.
Rafe is under the mistaken belief that he has tasted good pizza since he had some in Naples where “pizza was invented.” So I have no choice but to set him straight with real New York pizza, which we eat on a bench in Central Park. Then, because we don’t plan to move forward with our plan until nightfall, we wander around the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I’ve been to the Met countless times, but now it’s with new eyes. I see the foundations of Maker life chronicled in the Renaissance art. Rafe gets very worked up about one Raphael painting that he says is absolutely a forgery, as his family has the original hanging in their home in Avant. I steer him to the modern art section so he doesn’t make a scene, but there he quickly loses interest.
“Ada, this has been lovely, but I’m fatigued and want to rest up for later. I’m going to go back to the hotel for a nap. Why don’t you stay here? You’re clearly having a good time, and there’s so much more to see.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. He lifts my hands to his lips, brushes a kiss across my knuckles, and says, “I’ll see you later.” And then he’s gone.
I can’t help but feel disappointed. I didn’t want to go separate ways. I was having a nice time together. I continue to explore on my own, my enthusiasm deflated. Why did he even suggest coming here if he was gonna ditch me?
Then it hits me. Like a truck through a red light. What time did the receptionist say her shift was over? Four thirty? It’s four forty-five now. Of course he’s horny after weeks of not getting any while pretending to date me. I feel sick to my stomach. And angry. Before I can think about what a bad idea it is, I’m storming back to our hotel.
I crash through the door to our room, ready to let my anger burn hot, but what I see stops me cold in my tracks.
Rafe looks up sharply, shocked by my entrance. He is indeed with the receptionist in an intimate embrace, but not in flagrante delicto, as I had expected. They are both shirtless, but I assume that’s for the practicality of cleanliness rather than anything else. Rafe sits on the bed, and she is draped over his lap. I’m pretty sure she’s unconscious.
And then there’s the blood. Lots of it.
Rafe’s mouth is wide open in surprise. His teeth glisten red in stark contrast to the pearly white peeking through. Blood drips down his chin, down his neck. His chest is a sculpted canvas for a messy Jackson Pollock painting of crimson spatter. None of it is his blood. It’s all hers. Oozing out in a wine-red river from a gash in her slender wrist. Rafe’s spoon is on the bedside table, open to a mod with a sharp, now scarlet-tipped, point.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” he states, as if I’ve caught him borrowing a book without permission or something equally ordinary. His words sound moist and sticky from the blood coating his teeth. He notices this too and closes his lips. As if in slow motion, I watch the skin around his lips rise and fall into slopes and valleys as he sweeps his tongue around the inside of his mouth. His throat bobs as he swallows. He looks straight at me, as matter-of-fact as ever. “I do apologize. I didn’t want you to see this.”