Chapter 4
Skyla
No sooner did we take hold of Candace’s hands than she whisked Logan and me off to Paragon past.
We materialize in a darkness punctuated by neon phone lights and the occasional flare of a lighter. Bodies—so many sweaty teenage bodies pressing against one another in the familiar chaos of a legendary West Paragon rager.
The bass from some ancient rap song thumps through the floorboards and into my bones, a rhythm my adult body still remembers from a lifetime ago.
The air is thick with the unmistakable cocktail of cheap beer, expensive weed, and the particular desperation that only high school hormones can bring—an olfactory memory so potent it nearly knocks me back in time all on its own.
“Welcome to pure teenage chaos,” Candace announces, her voice somehow cutting through the din despite not raising it. “Quite the historical moment you’ve chosen.” She frowns at the surroundings as our eyes struggle to adjust.
I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.
By the looks of it, we’re standing in the corner of Ellis Harrison’s gargantuan living room in all of its glossy, big-money glory.
Ellis lives behind the Gates and right across the street from the Oliver house, but his father liked to show off his wealth in ways the Olivers could never dream of.
Ellis’ parents have a stripper pole in their game room, while Emma would rather hex someone than acknowledge any form of vertical foreplay.
“Oh, the good times we had here,” I muse while soaking in every last ounce of teenage desperation.
“And are apparently having here right this minute,” Logan points out.
No one seems to notice us—a benefit of whatever celestial cloaking device my mother has deployed.
And honestly, I’ll take that as a win. My track record at these parties wasn’t exactly stellar the first time around.
I take a closer look at the faces swarming around us and cringe.
“Why does everyone look like babies? Were we ever this young?” I ask Logan, not necessarily needing a reply. “Somehow, everyone in this room looks as if they belong in junior high, or elementary school, for sure not high school.”
“I agree,” he says grimly.
“And for the record, I didn’t exactly choose this moment in time,” I mutter, but my objection is halfhearted as I take in the scene. “I’m guessing I was fifteen at this point. Everything felt like the end of the world.”
Logan shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have chosen this night either.” A tight smile appears and disappears just as fast. “We weren’t all that happy way back when. In fact, it was far more drama and trauma than I want to think about.”
“Same,” I say just as a loud whoop goes off in the corner, and we turn to see a young Natalie Coleman, her rust-colored curls bouncing as she does body shots off some Countenance boy whose name I’ve long-forgotten.
Em sits on a couch nearby, looking vaguely scandalized yet mostly indifferent to the debauchery around her.
My stepbrother Drake leans against a wall, watching the party with that calculating wannabe bad-boy look he perfected long before he grew into his reputation.
And there we are—our younger selves scattered throughout the room, living through a night that would become just one of many turning points in our complicated history.
Logan’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently as he takes in the sheer teenage chaos. “This was the life,” he muses with a note of nostalgia locked in his voice. “Another lifetime ago, I’m not so sure I want to relive.”
I laugh, watching as a baby-faced Ellis funnels a beer with expertise that suggests this isn’t his first rodeo. And we all know it’s not. Ellis was playing with beer bongs when he was in diapers—and most likely other, far more nefarious bongs, too.
“I do believe these were the good old days that Ellis was lamenting at the bonfire,” I say, bumping Logan’s shoulder with mine. “And I hate to say it, but he was right. We had it pretty good despite all of the trauma and drama, didn’t we?”
“Pretty good?” Candace arches a perfect eyebrow. “You had no idea you were dancing on the edge of a celestial war, completely unaware that half your classmates weren’t human. I’d say ignorance made for excellent bliss.”
Logan huffs a little laugh. “Says the woman who orchestrated half of it.”
“Only half?” Candace presses a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Are you suggesting I’m losing my touch?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he counters.
I shake my head at him. “Do not egg her on,” I warn. “My mother makes nuclear weapons look like party favors.” A laugh gets caught in my throat as I spot something near the fireplace that makes my heart stop beating, and all laughter has just been taken off the table.
I suck in a quick breath as I take in the scene. “So it’s this night,” I say lower than a whisper.
Logan sits by the fire, and next to him is Michelle Miller with her curtain of glossy brown hair falling forward as she leans in close in an effort to seduce him.
Even from here, I can see the calculating seduction in her eyes, the way she positions her bronzed body to maximize her best assets, AKA those boobs she’ll spend the better half of the next decade tossing at anyone who glances her way.
I’ve caught them accidentally a few times myself, and not only are they the real deal, they’re infuriatingly perky.
Michelle has always wanted Logan with the single-minded determination of someone who collects hot Oliver trophies rather than relationships.
She definitely looks hot herself in that slutty way that made high school boys stupid—all big brown eyes and the kind of curves that seemed designed to make guys forget their own names.
And by the looks of it, Logan Oliver wasn’t immune to her obvious charms.
Logan follows my gaze and lets out a long-suffering groan. “Oh geez.”
“What night is this?” Candace asks with a tone that I’m positive is feigning innocence. Candace Messenger is a lot of things, but she is not a good actress.
I don’t answer; I’m too busy watching my younger self across the room, scoping out the fireplace scene with enough anguish to fuel a nuclear reactor.
“It’s the night of the diary,” Logan confirms, wincing as if the words themselves cause him physical pain.
It’s the night Logan locked lips with Michelle Miller, but Chloe’s infamous diary was also a key player here, so props to Logan for adding the lube.
We watch as this past version of me stands with past Gage, both of us fixated on Logan and Michelle as they canoodle by the fire like only teenagers can.
I remember this moment with crystal clarity—the jealousy burning in my chest, the confusion over why Logan would choose her company over mine, the sting of seeing his hands on her.
And honestly, it still stings despite the fact that we’ve moved so far past this, Michelle’s perfectly perky C-cup boobs are just a blip on the screen.
“I can’t stand watching him with Michelle,” the old me growls to Gage, the words carrying over to us despite the music. “Why does he care so much about a stupid diary when it hurts me?”
Logan stiffens. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“That was kind of the problem with us back then,” I say with a sigh. “We didn’t tell each other anything important, and that led to everything important imploding spectacularly.”
We watch as Gage follows me like a shadow, his eyes never leaving mine, even as I stare daggers at Logan and Michelle. The naked adoration on Gage Oliver’s face makes my chest ache for how simple things seemed back then. How pure everything was—heck, even our hatred.
“You know he’s just using her, right?” The old me nods to where Michelle has wrapped her arms around Logan’s midsection, his hand casually stroking her neck. “He’s just listening in,” past me insists. The desperate edge in my voice is painfully obvious from this vantage point.
Gage, however, doesn’t look convinced. And believe me, his jealousy is as evident as my own.
“I would never do that to you,” he says with a sincerity that cuts through time.
There’s something desperate in his tone, and I wholeheartedly believed him. I still do.
“Why does he want this diary so bad, anyway?” past me whispers, and I almost can’t stand to watch myself unravel at the seams like this.
Gage winces. “He thinks it has some vital piece of information.”
“To what? Finding her killers?”
As in finding Chloe Bishop’s killers. Honestly, I should have been greedy with my Celestra blood and withheld it from Dr. Oliver when he asked to milk me for my lifeline. I should have penned the counts who killed Chloe a thank you. But I’d never say any of that out loud.
“I heard,” my mother says.
“Me, too.” Logan gives my hand a squeeze, and I wince a little.
“Would you believe that Chloe and I are actually friends now?”
“No,” they say in unison.
Didn’t think so. I’m not sure I believe it either.
The old version of Gage shakes his head, his dimples deepening with a smug satisfaction he can’t quite hide. “You know what they say about a fool?”
“What?” The old me bristles visibly, my loyalty to Logan flaring despite the hurt. “I don’t like how you’re comparing Logan to a fool. He looks noble, like a king sitting over there. He has a glow about him that outshines the fire.”
Logan belts out a laugh—the version I dragged along with me this time. “Even when you hated me, you loved me.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I whisper.
“Give him enough rope—he’ll hang himself,” Gage declares, frowning at the old version of Logan as if he’d like to wrap the noose around Logan’s neck himself.
We watch as Michelle pulls Logan’s face down and kisses him full on the lips. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t push her away—just pulls back after a moment with nothing more than a blink of mild surprise.
I glance over at the old me, and the poor thing looks shattered. Honestly, I feel a little shattered right now just watching it all over again.
“He’s gone too far.” My younger self blinks back tears.
Hot angry tears that burned the insides of my lids and seared themselves over my brain, and later that night made their way onto my pillow.
I watch as the past me looks around for signs of Drake or Brielle, but doesn’t see them.
I knew they were probably rolling around in a bedroom somewhere in this maze of a mansion, and I was right.
The old me turns back to Gage, my entire body slumping with defeat. “Take me home.”
Gage doesn’t hesitate to lead me away, and I feel more than a wave of compassion for that younger version of myself, so certain she understood everything, yet understood nothing at all. Not sure I understand it to this day.
“For the record,” Logan says quietly, pulling me in, “I hated every second of that. I was trying to shake her down about that stupid diary, but none of it was worth hurting you.”
“You didn’t know you were hurting me,” I remind him. “I never told you.”
“I figured it out. And Gage may have landed a punch or two later that night to drive the point home.”
“Gage Oliver has always had my back,” I say with a wink. “Unlike some people.”
That’s not true either, but it works in a make-my-handsome-hubby-jealous pinch.
Candace clears her throat. “As touching as this trip down Unresolved Sexual Tension Lane is, we need to decide if this moment works for our anchor.”
Logan shakes his head firmly. “This isn’t going to work as any anchor. It’s not exactly something I want to relive.” His arm tightens around my waist like a silent apology across time.
I give an aggressive nod in agreement. “And I hated how it made me feel. I think we should find something better. Something light. Somewhere we wouldn’t mind visiting once in a while if we needed to go back.”
“So be it.” Candace sighs so hard that an entire solar system of miniature stars streams from her nostrils. She holds out her hands to us again. “Think of a better time, Skyla. Hurry now, we don’t have all night.”
“We sort of do,” I point out, closing my eyes, letting an entire litany of memories wash over me, searching for a moment untainted by jealousy or faction wars or death.
A pure moment to serve as our anchor in time, one we wouldn’t mind reliving again and again if need be.
One that serves as a thread that built the fabric that became our family.
To protect our family—more importantly, to protect our children.
The room begins to wobble beneath our feet as we prepare to light drive through Paragon past once again. The party scene dissolves around us, the music fading, the scent of poor teen choices receding like a bad nightmare.
Just before we fully evaporate, I catch a glimpse of Gage leading me toward the door, but there’s something strange about his expression, something I never noticed in the actual moment.
A calculation in his eyes that doesn’t match the devoted exterior.
He’s glancing toward Demetri, standing in the shadows that my younger self completely missed.
The implication hits me just as we’re pulled into the stream of time—that perhaps nothing about our past was exactly as I remembered it, and that maybe this anchor my mother wants us to create isn’t meant to preserve our history, but to reveal the lies hidden within it.
Or maybe that last image was a lie in and of itself.
I don’t see why not. So much of my life had been just that—a bald-faced lie.