Chapter 15
Skyla
Marshall Dudley’s mansion looms before Gage and me like a Gothic fever dream, covered in stone work cut at dramatic angles that somehow manage to look both ancient and impossibly modern.
The windows glow with warm light that cuts through Paragon’s perpetual gloom, casting rectangular beams across the rolling front lawn.
From inside, classical piano notes drift through the air—haunting, hypnotic, and unmistakably demonic in their perfection.
No human hands created those. The keys seem to dance on their own, powered by some unseen force.
Anyone else might mistake it for a player piano, but I know better.
There’s a ghost at the helm of that haunted ivory coffin, and whoever it is has some serious skill.
The air outside is thick with the scent of Marshall’s signature cologne—something spiced and woodsy that makes your knees weak whether you want them to or not—mingled with the collective perfume of a thousand floozies who’ve crossed his threshold before us.
The combination is both intoxicating and vaguely nauseating, like a dessert that’s too rich to finish but too delicious to stop eating.
Come to think of it, that’s Marshall Dudley in a nutshell.
I’ll admit, my heart skipped a beat driving through the Gates with Gage once again.
The Olivers, the Harrisons, Demetri, and Mr. Dudley himself all live behind these iron-clad walls, in the rarified air of Paragon’s elite, and as we pull up to Marshall’s grand estate, I can’t help but feel as if I’m reliving the glory days indeed. Because I am.
The rain has let up, the fog has pounced, and the rolling green lawn that leads up to Marshall’s oversized abode glitters like wet emeralds as the evening blooms into night.
Cars are parked every which way as half of West pours in through his front door with enough teenagers spilling out onto the pristine lawn like ants at a picnic. The house is lit up like a peach and—oh my word—in every window there’s a silhouette of what looks to be a half-dressed woman.
Gage ticks his head to the side. “Marshall does like his women half-dressed.”
“It’s like you read my mind.”
We share a dull laugh, lightening the mood for the very first time. “And I have a sneaking suspicion I know exactly who those women are.”
“Really?” Gage looks amused by this. “Who?” He squints their way again. “The Corset Crew?”
“I was going to say the Powdered Wig Posse, but I think I like your moniker better. Whores From Yesteryear always did sound so harsh.” Although it’s still my favorite nickname for them.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out if you’re right. Are you ready to do this?”
“Not by a long shot,” I say. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
We head inside, and the mystery of the silhouettes is immediately solved.
The place is overrun with what appear to be some of Marshall’s favorite guests, seventeenth-century hookers—loud, raucous women dressed in colorful gowns cut so low they’re defying both gravity, time itself, and several decency laws. I was so right.
Their hair is piled high, their faces painted like carnival masks with far too much rouge and kohl as they swarm through Marshall’s mansion like a bunch of flamboyant locusts.
Each one looks ready to sacrifice their dignity on the altar of Marshall’s attention.
And I know for a fact, they sacrifice so much more.
The piano continues its ghostly performance, the keys depressing in perfect time without a single soul in the vicinity—not a soul with a corporal frame anyway, while West High’s finest mingle with these historical harlots as if this is just another Sunday night in Paragon. And let’s face it, it so is.
The women swirl around the room in an explosion of jewel tones—emerald silk that catches the lamplight, deep burgundy velvet that whispers with every movement, and electric blue satin that practically glows against their powdered skin.
Their ringlets bounce with each riotous laugh, and the abundance of ruffles, ribbons, and lace creates a visual effect that’s equal parts mesmerizing and offensive.
A courtesan sprawls across the grand staircase like a welcome mat, hoping to ensure that Marshall lands on her in more ways than one.
“Points for determination,” I mutter. “But then we all know she doesn’t have to try so hard.
Marshall will be landing on each of these women before the night is through. ”
“I don’t get it,” Gage says, looking part mortified and part mystified at all the estrogen from yesteryear floating around the room. “Are they actresses?” he asks, clearly trying to make sense of the bizarre scene.
“Let’s go with that,” I say, though I’m fairly certain these women are the very real deal—plucked from their own time and deposited into Marshall’s mansion for deeply disturbing purposes.
But then, judging by how merry they all seem, they are so down for those dirty chamber lock-ins that require no clothes and lots of smutty skills.
Marshall is basically a modern-day superspreader of STDs, long gone and best forgotten.
Logan and Ellis materialize from the crowd with Ellis’ eyes glassy, and his grin so wide it threatens to split his face in half.
“Duuuudes,” Ellis draws the word out like only the sufficiently stoned can while offering Gage a complicated handshake that neither of them quite nails. “This party is freaking legendary. Dudley went all historical reenactment on us.”
That’s one way to look at it.
Logan nods our way. “I feel like I’m doing a reenactment myself.”
I clamp my lips together to keep from shedding a smile. Logan nailed it.
Gage glowers at him in response—probably because he assumes Logan’s talking about reenacting something with me, preferably with Cerberus there to cheer him on like some supernatural wingman.
“Where’s Drake?” I ask, more than happy to redirect the conversation before an Oliver battle royale breaks out.
“Last I saw, he was getting dragged into the garden by one of these—” Logan starts, but he’s cut off by a shriek from the back of the house, and I spot my redheaded bestie running out the back door.
Bree’s hair color always changed with her moods.
She’s blonde, she’s red, she’s blonde—she once went green after a nice swim in Demetri’s pool through no fault of her own, but she loved every verdant minute of it.
“And that’s Brielle taking back what’s hers,” I say, already moving toward the carnage. “I think I’d better supervise before she lands herself in handcuffs—and loves every minute of that, too.”
I weave through the crowd, dodging gyrating couples and a woman who keeps offering me something called a medicinal cordial from a suspicious-looking vial.
Outside, it’s dark, and the garden is less crowded but no less strange. Lanterns float through the air without visible support, casting creepy shadows across the manicured lawn and hedges. Marshall’s backyard is about the size of Canada.
I spot Bree near the fountain, trying to pluck the curls out of a redheaded courtesan who’s trying to break free from the carnage. Drake stands nearby, looking equal parts horrified and, well, turned on.
“You keep your disease-ridden hands off my man!” Brielle screeches into the Paragon night, giving the woman’s hair another yank that threatens to pluck out her tresses and her spine.
“Bloody hell, release me, you mad wench!” the courtesan yelps, her British accent thick and authentic, and I’ll admit, I can listen to it all day.
“Bree, stop!” I grab my bestie by the shoulders and pull her back. “You can’t assault the entertainment!”
“I can when the entertainment is about to entertain my boyfriend’s lap rocket!”
A groan evicts from me. I live with Drake. He’s my smelly, annoying stepbrother. And I sure as heck don’t want to think of him owning a lap rocket, let alone employing its uses.
The courtesan takes the opportunity to flee, shooting daggers at Brielle as she disappears back into the house.
“She was all over him!” Brielle sobs on cue as mascara runs down her cheeks in thick black rivers. “She said she was going to show him her secret garden!”
Drake holds up his hands. “I swear I wasn’t going to go with her. I wasn’t even interested.”
“You looked pretty interested to me!” Brielle slings back.
Please, we all know he was plenty interested. Just because he’s into Bree doesn’t mean he didn’t have a wandering eye back in the day or in the future. Case in point, the fact that he had kids with Bree and Emily—while still in school.
I steer her away from my stepbrother, who has the equivalent of donkey balls for brains, and pull her toward a secluded bench partly hidden by a weeping willow. “Calm down, Bree. Trust me, this isn’t worth having a meltdown over.”
It’s quiet here, cooler, the din from the party escaping from the back of the house in short bursts of laughter and screams.
“You don’t understand,” she sniffles, collapsing onto me as if I were a life raft. “Drake is... He’s so wonderful. He’s like so awesome. I’ll never meet anyone like him. If I lose him—”
“You’re not going to lose him,” I interrupt, the words slipping out before I can stop them. Although I’m not sure I wanted to. Bree needs all the spoilers she can get about the future if she plans on keeping her sanity intact. As it stands, it’s iffy at best on most days.
“How can you be so sure?” Her eyes are wide and desperate in the soft glow of those floating lanterns.
I take a deep breath. This probably violates about a hundred light driving rules, but seeing Brielle like this—so young and vulnerable and heartbroken over something that seems so trivial from my point of view—well, it breaks something inside me.
“Because I know you end up with Drake,” I say firmly. “You’re going to get married. You’re going to have kids. You’re going to make a ton of money, too.”
Brielle stares at me, her sobs hiccupping to a stop. “What?”
“It’s all going to work out, Bree. Trust me on this.”
“You’re just saying all that to make me feel better,” she says, but I can tell that a smidge of hope is already creeping into her voice.
I glance over my shoulder, spotting Logan and Gage talking to a group of guys near the fire pit.
“Okay,” I turn back to my bestie, “I have to tell you something or I’m going to burst. I just need someone in my corner, like an ear to bend, you know? But you’re going to have to promise me you’re not going to tell anyone, not Drake, not Gage, not Logan—and especially not Chloe.”
Good grief, if this knowledge got into Chloe’s hands, well, I’m pretty sure that would throw a monkey wrench in my mother’s plans, and quite possibly my future—and worse yet, my children’s future. And let’s face it, everyone’s future would go to hell in a Chloe-shaped handbasket if she found out.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Brielle winks as she says it.
In three quick breaths, I tell her everything.
And with my very next breath, I regret it all.
I finish with—“I promise you, everything I said is true. Like I said, I’m light driving. I’m here from the future.”
Brielle gasps with delight, her eyes widening to the size of Drake’s ego. “No way! Are you, like, serious? Oh my goodness, Skyla!” She bounces on the bench as her distress evaporates just like that. “This is insane! I have to go find Drake and tell him the good news!”
“No, wait—” But it’s too late. She darted off in a pink blur racing toward the house.
“Well, that was stupid,” I mutter to myself. “Way to stay inconspicuous, Messenger.”
This won’t change things, will it? No, it can’t.
It’s impossible.
I could run through the house naked and screaming, and nothing would change in the future—with the exception of my boobs being plastered on twelve different porn sites for the next fifty years. But still.
Oh heck. I’d better do some damage control.
I just told the girl who can’t keep a secret, the secret of a lifetime, more or less.
I push myself up from the bench, intent on finding Logan before Brielle can spread time travel rumors through the entire junior class, but as I turn, I walk straight into what feels like a brick wall disguised as a person.
I look up into the most handsome, blessed-by-God features I’ve ever had the misfortune to find attractive.
My stomach bisects with heat, a physical reaction that no amount of temporal displacement can diminish.
It turns out, it’s not a person at all—it’s one red-hot sexy Sector who possesses enough prowess to please all of the women in this century and every other that has ever been recorded.
Case in point, the slut parade from an era long gone by.
“Ms. Messenger,” Marshall growls, looking down at me with those fiery eyes that seem to glow from within.
His lips curl into a smile that’s equal parts predatory and inviting.
Those golden locks, those lethally sharp cheekbones, and the body built for speed beneath the sheets.
“I knew if I sent enough breadcrumbs, the little bird would eventually find her way to my cage.”
The world seems to freeze around us, the party fades to nothing but background noise as his eyes burn through every defense I’ve ever built. I’ve walked straight into his web, and the predatory satisfaction gleaming in those fiery eyes tells me that escape was never an option.