“No. It comes with the territory. I’ve been hanging out with Giselle. She taught me a few tricks.”
“Giselle—she wanted to come and spend time with the family, then you guys…”
“She told me,” Logan flexes a sad smile. “I’m hoping I could come, too.”
“You don’t need an invitation. Besides, if we’re lucky Holden will be dead by midnight.” I start to rise, and he pulls me gently down, lands me back on the floor with a soft thud.
“It’s not that easy. We can’t have any external injuries. I don’t have Celestra capabilities. It’s going to be difficult explaining why I’m alive if the entire left side of my head is bashed in.”
“Right, we need to do this with no one around, totally covert ops. I’ll drown him or poison him, something that won’t leave any marks, and when he kicks the bucket you can, you know, zoom right back in.”
His lips pull into a bleak line.
“It’s not that easy, is it?”
He shakes his head.
A sense of dread overtakes me. “We need Marshall, don’t we?”
He gives a weak nod.
Just freaking great.
Chapter 21
Only You
Clouds lay over the morning, hard like sedimentary rocks with periodic layering in every shade of grey. A waxy film douses the outside world with just enough fog to soften the hard edges of the pines, the needle-like protrusions of the still bald maples.
I sweep a quick glance at the forest outside my window for signs of Nevermore, but avail nothing in my search. Instead, I dress for church in a bright red angora sweater two sizes too small that gives the illusion my breasts are about to hulk their way out into the world—a pair of skinny jeans and heels. Really I could wear sweats and no one would bat a lash. Paragon Presbyterian tries its best to emulate the Christian casual trend that’s been assaulting the religion of late. No shirt, no shoes, no problem—plus there’s a makeshift Starbucks and donut buffet at the rear. Soon they’ll be serving mojitos and oysters as a ploy to get people to go forth and be fruitful.
Gage sent a text saying he couldn’t make it this morning. Said he was still sore from the body piercing Logan tried inflicting on him, thought he’d lay low. I’m totally going over after and hanging out with him—that is, after I pummel Marshall with pleas to help me get Logan back into the right body, thus the breasty red sweater and high heeled embellishments.
Downstairs, I find the entire family amassed in various levels of undress. Mia and Melissa are both so ripely pissed at this fragile hour it hardly seems possible.
Mia! The movie.
Crap.
“Mia,” I go over with my arms spread wide and attempt to hug her, but she ducks, successfully evading the maneuver.
“Back off.” She holds up a spatula as if she were about to cut out my liver.
“I totally fell asleep,” I press my hand against my chest. I’m actually telling the truth for once. Logan stayed for a good long while, and I fell asleep in his arms. He said he’d stay the night, but babysitting Holden was his newfound responsibility. Nevertheless, I officially hold the title of worst sister ever.
“You fell asleep?” She charges me with a serious look of doubt. “I went up to your room and the door was locked,” she leans accusingly, “so I picked it. Then it was jammed, so I had to push my way in. But guess what? You weren’t in your bed. You weren’t in the bathroom.” She bores into me a look of concentrated revenge, or hatred, really it could go either way. “I heard voices in that secret room of yours.” She walks over and flips the pancakes already singed on one side. I swear I think I see Marshall’s effigy on one, but I’m quick to glance away and not stray from the emotional trauma at hand. “I got the message,” she hisses. “Plus it was Valentine’s Day, so I would have done the same.” She bats me away with the kitchen tool in her hand.
“So you’re really not mad at me?” I find this doubtful.
She shakes her head while breaking off a piece of pancake and popping it in her mouth.
“Thank you!” I go over and hug her by the shoulders. “I’ll take you to the mall or something.”
“Movies. I plan on having a date in the near future,” she whispers, eyeing Melissa at the table from over my shoulder. “Maybe next Tuesday if I’m lucky.”
“That’s a school night.”
“It’s five dollar Tuesday, plus this isn’t serious enough yet for a Friday or a Saturday.” She shakes her head annoyed like I should be aware of the hierarchy of date nights.
“So who’s the date with?” Now that Melissa has saddled herself with the demonic Armistead spawn, I don’t really mind the idea of Mia seeing a boy, or two or twelve.
“Gabriel Armistead,” she whispers, licking the syrup off her finger.
“What?” I hiss. “I thought you were balling your eyes out over him last night because he was such a jerk?”
“Who’s a jerk?” Mom comes in wafting of expensive perfume, already dressed in a long navy skirt and white ruffled blouse. Her feet are pressed into heels that rival my own, both of which could double as circus stilts.
“Skyla,” Mia doesn’t miss a beat before walking off with a plate of flapjacks.
“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Tad howls.
If Tad would emote just a smidge of sarcasm when he says stupid stuff like that it might make me respect him just a little bit more.
“Alrighty then.” Mom dons an over-processed smile as she heads to the kitchen table, motioning for the rest of us to do the same.
“Your mother and I have news.” Tad invokes an authoritative baritone, exclusive to imbeciles and stepfathers, as he hovers over the lot of us.
I, for one, hope this has nothing to do with either procreation or recreation. Two concepts that I’m loathe to entertain with the Landon bunch.
I take a seat in between Ethan and Drake at the bar, in not-so-eager anticipation of the announcement.
“You’re finally having a baby!” Mia shouts it out like they’ve been depriving us of the honor of knowing for months.
“Not yet sweetie,” Mom corrects. “Last night, Tad and I came to a very serious decision that will affect all of you in the near future.”
Dear God, they’re getting a divorce.
Tad really fucked up good this time.
“Let it be known, that only a mere twelve hours ago,” Tad pauses, threading his arm through my mother’s, “I asked this beautiful woman to once again become my blushing bride—and she said yes.”
Nothing but dead silence from the peanut gallery. None of us are all that thrilled with this rather dramatic bit of non-news.
“That’s it?” Melissa barks. I think they’ve actually managed to offend her. “You’re already married.”
“I know, sweetie.” Mom uses her sugarcoated tone to reconcile the fact she’s capable of making the same mistake twice. “And you’re all going to be in the wedding— again.”
Actually, this is pseudo great news. As long as Tad is still in the picture that means whatever the hell was going on with Demetri is long over. Unless, of course, it’s all some elaborate effort to throw us off track. That would be a strange cover for an affair—remarrying your husband—it reeks of ingenious Fem inspired deception.
“Our one year wedding anniversary is coming up, and we thought what better way to celebrate than to renew our vows?” Tad nods into the idea.
“Of course, we’ll keep it simple, just family in the backyard,” Mom beams like this is going to make her year.
“Brielle will have to come,” Drake says.
“Oh, and Gage,” I add.
“I’m bringing Gabriel,” Melissa raises a brow in Mia’s direction.
“Who’s Gabriel?” Tad straightens. “Look, this is already getting out of hand.”
“It’s just a few extra people.” Mom is sharp in her rebuttal.
“You’re right,” Tad loses a little color. “We’ll just throw a few more hot dogs on the
grill.”
Hot dogs?
And planning a wedding? Is Tad truly so clueless that he doesn’t realize a wedding is one of the most stressful events in a girl’s life? He’s insane if he thinks they’ll survive this couples catastrophe. He might as well have handed her divorce papers last night, signed and sealed—traded his wedding band in for cash at the pawn shop on the way home.
Nobody says a word to fill in Tad’s moronic void. Instead, Mom pushes out a feeble attempt at a smile and ends up with an uncertain look on her face.
I have a feeling that will be one of the nicer sentiments she shares with him in the upcoming weeks.
I have a feeling Tad and Lizbeth Landon are about to go down in flames.
Chapter 22
Church on Time
I drive the Mustang out onto the strangled stretch of highway that knifes through Paragon proper. Between the dark shadows of the pines I can see the pounding surf, the hard white spray of the sea sift through the fog.
Mia insists on riding along. I’ve already warned her she needs to hitch a ride back with Mom and Tad. She doesn’t say a word about last night or her plans to do a relationship takedown with Gabriel Armistead. Instead, as soon as we hit the church foyer, she bolts into a group of kids her own age—more precisely over to a golden haired boy with a perpetual smile, who stands a head above the rest a.k.a. the perpetrator in question who’s messing with my sisters.
“A little young for you, wouldn’t you agree?” Demetri hovers over my shoulder wearing a black hat, trench coat to match. He plucks the fedora off his head and offers a hideous grin.
Before I can answer, Mom pops up beside me.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she tips her chest in as she says it.
“I was just about to invite Skyla to my grandfather’s estate. Why don’t you accompany her, Lizbeth? I’m afraid I may not have made the best impression. She seems to be having some hesitancy regarding her community service.”
“I would love to see your grandfather’s estate!” Her eyes spring wide like twin lanterns. “Name the time and day.” She wiggles with delight as if he just asked her to prom.
“Any day this week that you’re available. I’m subject to your schedule. You have my number. Just give me a call when you’re in the neighborhood.” He redirects his attention to me at a lethargic pace. He’s relishing this, I can tell. “Skyla, I have a feeling you and I are going to get along just fine.”
That’s funny—I have the distinct feeling we’re not.
I give a courteous nod before ducking into the sanctuary.
Faux Logan is sitting in our usual spot, leaning into Chloe as she whispers toxic sweet nothings into his ear.
Figures. She’s probably been coaching him on all things Logan since day one.
Brielle comes in and we take a seat together.
“Hey,” she scoots in until our shoulders touch. “Heads up, my mom is super pissed at your mom.”
“What?” I look over to where Mom is carrying on a deep and meaningful conversation with Demetri and her breasts.
Darla, Brielle’s mom, joins in on the fun. It looks natural, not at all catty or aggressive.
“What’s she pissed about?”
“She says all your mom cares about is you,” she huffs as though this were an outrage.
“So?”
“So? I’m the one having her grandchild. My mom wants me to go to that special clinic you went to when everyone thought you were knocked up. My mom said your family could care less if I gave birth out in a field with the help of a drunk ranch hand and a rusted out hoe.”
“That’s not true,” I swivel around in search for Drake. He’s the one who should be putting out this hormonal fire, not me. I spy him near the back, where both he and Ethan vie for Emily’s attention. I turn to look back at mom. “She’s really happy about the baby.” In all honesty, I don’t think I’ve heard her mention it once.
“Oh, good. I’ll let my mom know. She can call off the lawyer.”
“The what?” The last thing Mom and Tad need is some serious legal drama playing out. That’s precisely why I haven’t presented them with the cease and desist letter Pierce inflicted me with.
I look back over at the three of them. Both Mom and Darla glare in our direction. If I didn’t know better I’d swear they were both honing their hate-filled laser stares right at me.
“Looks like your Mom is really ticked,” I whisper.
“Yeah, well, she’s not your biggest fan right now. She thinks your parents favor you over Drake, but I’ll set her straight.”
Ironic, how the only one not scowling in my direction is Demetri—only I don’t find it ironic at all.
He offers a maniacal smile exclusive to villains and heinous Fems the world over.
He’s screwing with Mom, and he’s screwing with Darla.
I bet if he has his way, he’ll burn the whole lot of us to the ground, the way he did my father.
***
After church I make a beeline over to Marshall’s quaint ten thousand foot abode.
A strange wind picks up, jostles the branches of the Juniper trees, makes them wave their branches quick and spasmodic. It’s unnatural, unearthly…
“Logan?” I whisper to myself. I bet that was him, scratching against the window that night in Gage’s bedroom, he probably set out his letterman jacket for me to see, broke the key off in the lock when Gage and I wanted to be alone, christened us with a fallen branch in the middle of a kiss.
I huff a laugh.
Ellis and the fountain, Holden kissing me in the truck and the music exploding in our ears that first night he came back—that was all Logan trying his hardest to preserve his love for me.
I return my focus to the road as I pull into Marshall’s expansive driveway. I thought for sure I’d see him at church this morning. I just assumed there was some law that stipulated he, rise and shine, and give God his glory, glory each and every Sunday.
I give three solid knocks at the door and wait before jiggling the knob trying to let myself in. It’s cold outside, the kind of chill that knifes through each layer of clothing easy as butter.
The door swings open and I gasp at the sight of him.
“Marshall?”
“Ms. Messenger.” His skin is illuminated bright as a glow stick, as if he overslept in a radioactive tanning bed.
If he can’t control the bizarre condition then I completely understand the reason he sequestered himself from public view. A florescent facade would certainly be fodder for gossip amongst the congregation.
He escorts us deep into his living room.
“I didn’t see you at church today,” I say, in lieu of firing off a half a dozen sarcastic remarks about his phosphorescent skin condition.
“Feeling high and mighty are we? I gave accounting at the throne,” he growls, “thus the unearthly brilliance. I dare say I’ve trumped you in all matters spiritual, this day and every other. What can I help you with?”
“I think you know,” a marked irritation spikes in me. I don’t appreciate the never-ending supply of head games Marshall indulges in.
“Clue me in, Love. I’m rather irritated at the moment.” His hair gleams like gold floss, his chiseled features blush a burnished bronze. Marshall could kill with his razor sharp looks—only he decided to use a car.
“You did this to Logan.” I go to push him in the chest, and he catches me by the wrist.
“Enough with the childish antics,” he reprimands, tossing my hand back. “I’ve spent the last interim of my existence defending you.”
“Defending me? To who?”
“The Sector alliance, your mother—God himself,” he seethes.
My heart lurches.
I thought I was the pissed off one in this conversation, obviously I’m sadly mistaken.
Marshall launches his fist into the piano, causing a magnificent explosion of sound. The entire framework splinters and lands the piano in pieces on the ground as if a bomb
went off.
“Hey! I liked that thing,” I shout, trying to inject a little semblance of sanity into the moment.
Marshall glares at the damaged instrument, and, as if in obedience, it magically rights itself and returns to its black lacquered splendor.
OK—if that was a show of prowess to make me aware of who exactly it is I’m messing with, he’s got my undivided attention.
“Why were you defending me?” My entire demeanor softens. I touch his cheek, marveling at his radiance, and he storms off in the other direction.
“You surrendered region one in less than five minutes!” His voice booms in a fit of rage. “It’s obvious we’re going to have to conduct a strict level of combat training. I’ll start by drilling into you something you seem to be lacking—a commitment for the cause.”
“Logan and Gage—”
He cuts me off, “Your hormonal overdrive has placed us in jeopardy.”
“They were dying!” I roar.
“Precisely why they weren’t brought into the offensive.” He gives a long blink. “Skyla, out of love I gave you the discs—to your mother’s protest I gave you those life saving sensors. She wanted you caged in each battle like a corporeal beast. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“No,” I take a step back, alarmed at his anger-induced passion. “I really don’t.”
“Skyla, you were in no mortal danger. No matter how long the battle would have waged you would have been returned to the exact time in the evening from which you were taken. There was no point in squandering the disc let alone handing the Fems victory on a platter.” He glares. “They’re beyond recognition, what with all of the spiritual high fives—ego’s the size of small planets.” He spears me with his copper eyes. “To say there is rampant disappointment in the celestial sphere over your actions, would be modest. Of course, the blame has been pinned square on my shoulders.” He straightens, looking out the window at the corral in the distance.
“Why you?”