Revelation by Katie Klein

spine.
    "Godspeed, Ms. Green."

 
     
      
    T WENTY
     
     
     
    Knowing sleep will never come, I pack. I rip tags off pristine, monogrammed luggage and fill it with everything I might need in the coming days. Forty-fives between the folds of sweaters. Knives between the black bolero and shimmery gold dress. Boxes of ammunition between a tube of mascara and eyeliner. My flat iron.
    As I force belongings into the largest suitcase, I step away from Genesis the Avenger, shedding the moniker like an ill-fitting skin, transforming to Genesis the Assassin. Because that's what I am. I kill for killing's sake. And I think that my life was a whole lot simpler when all I had to worry about was Viola. There was black and there was white and she deserved to die. No other punishment would have sufficed, would have held her—not after what she did to me. To Seth. My friends. She is everything I trained for. And now I wonder if there was no alternative—if this was the only way out from the very beginning, that, no matter what happened, I was destined to find this path.
    I'm in the SUV by three in the morning. The streets are deserted. The night clear. Cold. Moonlight pours from the sky, brightening the landscape.
    A police officer stops me on my way out of town. I pass him my license through a cracked window. It has my new name. The new address. The new me. He doesn't even ask where I'm going, just hands it back and waves me through, then returns to his make-shift office, the warmth of a space heater and mug of coffee.  
    And here I am again, travelling this well-worn road. Escaping under cover of night.
    The sun is rising as I reach Gaineston , the world brightening from black to shades of blue, skyline looming in the distance. I punch the hotel address into the GPS, and find the building easily. My legs ache with fatigue as I roll my suitcase across the parking lot, pavement grinding beneath the wheels.
    Inside, the hotel is everything I remember. The sounds, the smells, the colors. I pass the restaurant to my right, cross the lobby, head to the front desk. "The Cypress," in brushed nickel, graces a stone water feature behind the manager, who seems awfully stiff in that navy blazer.
    "I need a room," I tell her.
    Her fingers hover above the keyboard, poised. "Do you have a reservation?"
    Would the Council secure a reservation for me?
    "I don't know. You can check."
    "Your name?"
    "It would be under Fleming. Genesis Fleming. Or maybe Genesis Green? I'm not sure."
    She strikes a few keys, examines the screen, frowning. "I'm sorry. I don't see anything."
    "It's fine. I need a room either way."
    "Check-in isn't until noon."
    "What?"
    "I can assign you a room," she explains. "But check-in isn't until noon."
    I heave a weary sigh. "Look, I just drove like, three hours to get here. I'm tired. Is there any way you can let me check in now? I'll pay extra. Whatever."
    "I'm sorry. Hotel policy."
    "I don't get it. Is there a shortage of rooms or something?" I ask, temper swelling, body overheating from lack of rest.
    A smile. It's the best she can offer.
    I study her for a moment. Her too-tight ponytail and tacky yellow scarf. The pin on her lapel congratulating her for five years of service. "What am I supposed to do until lunch time?"
    "The restaurant is open. You're welcome to wait. Otherwise, I'm sure there are other hotels in the area willing to accommodate you."
    Because I'm not worth accommodating .
    I'm too exhausted to scoff. Or laugh. Instead, I turn without a word.
    The restaurant hostess greets me with a smile I can't return. The world is awake and moving now, a few of the restaurant tables occupied—all businessmen in dark suits, cell phones pressed to ears and pages from Wall Street Journals spread across tables.
    The waiter arrives not long after I'm seated, wishing me a "Good Morning."
    "The morning would be a lot better if I could check into a room, but apparently I'm not worth accommodating. At least not until noon," I tell