Free Revelation by Katie Klein Page A

demand.
    He doesn't speak, doesn't utter a sound, his arm only rises. Slowly. Until I'm staring straight into the barrel of a gun. And then, as if to answer, his finger tightens against the trigger, squeezing. I flinch, recoiling, but before I can open my mouth to scream. . . .
    I jerk awake, sitting upright, sweat beading off my forehead, rolling down my cheek. The moon-brightened bedroom is empty.
    I push aside the comforter, feel for the gun. It's still there, tucked beneath the pillow, exactly where I left it. I breathe relief. I'm alone. I'm alive. They haven't come to kill me. Yet.
    Time passes disjointedly, both leaping and creeping as I lie still, finger on the trigger, staring at a ceiling unable to sleep. And when the first sign of morning trickles through cracks in the blinds—a soft, indigo light—I crawl out of bed and slide jeans over my hips, slip the gun into the waistband, grab keys and Carter's jacket on my way to the door, careful not to wake him.
    The frigid morning air bites my cheeks and ears and nose. The sun has yet to rise. The world so blue and quiet I hear the lull of ocean waves before I reach the marina, water ebbing and flowing, kissing the sand. Wispy clouds ring the horizon. Sea grass blows in the wind. I breathe salty air, hoping it will somehow fill me. Fix me. Make me whole again. But no matter how hard I try I still feel that hollow emptiness inside. That missing piece.
    I don't know how much time has passed or how far I've gone, but I turn around just as sun lightens the sky. There are others now. Older couples walking the beach. A few brave souls searching for shells. It's still early, early and freezing, town half-deserted, but they're here, lured by the ocean. Bewitched. Unable to walk away, even if they wanted to.
    A guy—younger than me, fourteen or fifteen, maybe?—stands at the water's edge, gazing across the horizon and into nothing. He doesn't move as I approach, doesn't turn to face me, makes no effort to speak. He only stands there, watching the ocean as I pass. He's thin. All limbs—like a baby deer.
    All limbs.
    The sun spills through cracks in the clouds, casting orange and pink and lilac reflections across sand and water.
    I turn, blinking back the glow of blonde hair shimmering with morning light. Our eyes meet. My heart stops.
    "Joshua?" I say, so low I'm not even sure the word passes my lips. I squint, studying him, moving closer.
    He turns away, frowning.
    "Joshua?" I repeat, louder.
    "Sorry," he says, head shaking.
    But the voice.
    It's him.
    The realization that he doesn't recognize me strikes hard—a sucker punch to the gut. But of course he doesn't recognize me. He wouldn't. My hair. The color. "Joshua, it's me! Genesis. My hair's different, but it's Gee!"
    His eyes search mine, and I wait for a flicker of recollection. But . . . there's nothing. Nothing but blank stare. Barrenness. This unknown person standing before him claiming to know him, and wanting to remember because maybe it would somehow make him understand this world just a little better. But then: "I'm sorry. I don't know you."
    A nervous laugh. " Of course you know me," I say, pushing against his shoulder, trying to physically force the memory back into his body. "It's Genesis! You're 'Fists of Fury'! We trained together! I helped the Guardians!"
    His face grows pale at this, lips turning white, as if I've stumbled upon something—a connection—something he understands. "How do you know about the Guardians?" he whispers.
    "I know you're one of them. I know that, in an instant, I can blink and you'll be in another realm. I've been there. I know that if you disappeared you could still see my silhouette. I know there are angels and demons watching us. Right now."
    His eyes narrow. "How do you know this?"
    "Because of Seth. You know Seth!" I insist.
    Joshua shakes his head. "I don't know anyone named Seth."
    "You were best friends. You were an angel on probation."
    "We're not angels . . ."
    "You're