Free Revelation by Katie Klein

OURTEEN
     
     
     
    My hand finds the magazine, feeling its weight in the darkness. Its shape. Ears registering its click into place.
    And then the knock.
    The persistent thudding.
    I rip the blindfold from my eyes, squint back brightness. A quick scan of the marina from the window reveals no immediate sign of Carter or the boat. I check the time on the microwave. He isn't due to return until dinner, and this visitor isn't going away.  
    Another one-two-three knuckle against the door.
    I heave a sigh, lift the leg of my jeans, cram the gun into the holster at my ankle. My bare feet pad quietly across the living room floor. Through the peephole, I see a distorted man alone in the breezeway.
    You shouldn't open the door for strangers, the voice in my head chides.
    The things I'm most afraid of don't bother knocking , I remind it.
    I flip the deadbolt, turn the knob, jerk the door open.
    "Can I help you with something?" I ask, unwilling to mask the irritation in my tone. Because no one who knocks for ten straight minutes deserves an ounce of civility. My foot wedges the door—preventing it from opening further—fingers poised, ready to grab the forty-five in a second. 
    "Is Carter Fleming available?" The man is older. Pencil-thin. Gray suit. Glasses. Precautions are unnecessary, I realize. I could probably take him down without the gun.
    "At the moment? No," I say. "Who, may I ask, is looking for him?"
    The man reaches inside his coat pocket, removes a business card. John W. Hardee, Attorney at Law . My spine stiffens. "What can I do for you?"
    "Are you Genesis?"
    "Depends on who's asking."
    He plucks the card from my fingers, hands it back to me.
    I scoff.
    What a prick.
    "Well, Mr. Hardee, Attorney at Law, it's nice to meet you. Any particular reason why you spent the last ten minutes beating down my door?"
    "I need to drop these off," he says, presenting a sizeable envelope. "Carter is expecting them, and I was told someone would be home."
    "So you're Carter's attorney," I confirm.
    "I'm the Fleming's attorney. Congratulations on the wedding," he continues. "I'm sorry we weren't afforded an invitation."
    "Thank you. And there were no invitations. Would've ruined the surprise."
    "Yes, Mr. Fleming—Carter's father, I mean—found it highly amusing."
    I detect something like sarcasm in his voice. "Then I guess it's a good thing he's not the Mr. Fleming I aim to please," I counter.
    A slow blush crawls up his neck, reaching his cheeks, eyes averting, adjusting his glasses. "I apologize. I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I only meant to bring Carter these papers. They're very important."
    He hands me the package. Bulky. Sealed. A large CONFIDENTIAL stamped across the front. I examine the address. " Gaineston ? We're out of the way for you, aren't we?"
    "The Flemings are very important to us." He clears his throat, gathering whatever's left of his professionalism. "And, as the new Mrs. Fleming, please don't hesitate to call if there's anything we can do for you."
    My eyebrow lifts, skeptical. "How about I just make sure Carter gets this and we'll call it a day."
    I shut the door between us, locking it before Mr. Hardee can say anything else.
    When Carter returns from the marina, cheeks and nose pink with windburn, I point to the packet on the counter. He seems pleased to see it, but, despite the curiosity pinching my skin, I don't ask what's inside. I'm not a Fleming—not really—and their business isn't my business.
    I do, however, feel qualified to tell him his attorney is an ass.    

 
     
     
    F IFTEEN
     
     
     
    I jerk awake, sitting upright, sweat beading off my forehead, rolling down my cheek. A shadowy figure hovers at the foot of my bed, and, as panic descends, I feel beneath my pillow, the cool of my sheets, searching for the gun. It's gone. As eyes adjust to darkness, I can distinguish the robe. Short, silvery hair.
    The Council.
    "What do you want?" My voice catches, squeaking the