Chapter 24
Skyla
Evening descends on Paragon like a bruise with nothing but purple skies and brooding clouds that press down on this forsaken rock with a personal vengeance.
Fog rolls in, thick and ominous, swallowing the coastline while the moon breaks free every now and again, casting everything in silver before disappearing behind the gloom.
The pine trees that ring the island seem to grow taller in the darkness, their branches reaching toward us like gnarled fingers as we wind through the narrow roads.
Of all the people I could have asked for a ride to Marshall’s house, Michelle Miller was definitely not my first choice.
Or my second. Or anywhere in my top fifty, honestly.
But the second she heard that I needed to see Marshall, stat, she practically threw her apron at Logan and announced she wasn’t feeling well enough to finish her shift.
That’s because she was suddenly feeling frisky for a Sexy Sector.
“Funny how your mysterious illness coincided perfectly with my need for transportation,” I say as her car hugs another curve.
Michelle drives as if the road personally offended her and she’s getting revenge one squealing tire at a time.
Or more to the point, she’s afraid Marshall will actually start grading papers instead of taking off his shirt—which I’ll admit, would be a tragedy.
Michelle glances at me with a smile that’s equal parts innocence and ulterior motives. “What can I say? I’m a helpful person. Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve had a reason to visit Mr. Dudley’s mansion.”
“You were there yesterday.” And most likely this morning, but I leave that part out.
“Plus, Dudley texted me something about extra credit, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about math.”
I guess Michelle Miller does have a brain. Sort of.
And I hate the way she says, “Mr. Dudley.” It makes it sound like she’s auditioning for a role in some very inappropriate teacher-student fantasy.
By the way, she won that role, and so have countless other girls and faculty members from West. I find it ironic that the scholastic powers that be would frown on those kinds of shenanigans, and yet the Decision Council seems to look the other way.
“I’m sure Dudley will be thrilled to see you,” I say dryly.
“Oh, he will be.” Michelle’s confidence is both impressive and slightly terrifying. “We have a connection. He just doesn’t know it yet because of professional boundaries or whatever.”
“Right. Professional boundaries. Also known as not going to jail.”
“Age is just a number,” she says, taking another corner like we’re fleeing a crime scene.
“So is a prison sentence.”
We pull up to Marshall’s estate, which looms against the dark sky like something out of a Gothic romance novel.
The mansion’s windows glow with warm light that should be welcoming but somehow manages to look vaguely sinister.
Michelle parks in his carport with the kind of casual familiarity that suggests this isn’t her first uninvited visit.
And let’s face it, the fact that she knows exactly which spot doesn’t trigger the motion sensor lights tells me everything I need to know about Michelle’s extracurricular activities.
“Ready?” she asks, already climbing out of the car.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Michelle waltzes through Marshall’s front door without knocking because apparently boundaries are just a cute suggestion when you’re stalking your math teacher.
The scent of expensive cologne and something delicious cooking drifts from the kitchen, mixing with the faint smell of leather and old money that seems permanently embedded in the walls.
Marshall emerges from the kitchen looking like temptation ordered a body and decided to become a math teacher for fun.
His dark hair defies physics in the best way possible, and his black button-down is committing crimes against every female in a five-mile radius.
The smirk playing on his lips says he’s absolutely not surprised to find us standing uninvited in his foyer—which, knowing Marshall, he probably isn’t.
“Well, well,” he says, that slight transatlantic accent making even casual words sound like an invitation to make bad decisions. “Two of my favorite kittens showing up unexpectedly? To what do I owe this delightful pleasure?”
Michelle practically purrs, “Skyla needed a ride, and I needed an excuse to see you.”
“How wonderfully transparent of you, Ms. Miller.”
“I prefer honest,” Michelle counters with a smile that could peel the clothes right off of a weaker man.
“I need to talk to you alone,” I interrupt before this verbal foreplay can escalate any further, and I end up having to shout at him from the other side of his bedroom door. It’s happened before. “It will just take a second.”
Michelle’s smile turns predatory. “Great. I’ll wait for you upstairs, Mr. Dudley. In your chambers, and I’ll arrange myself just the way you like.”
And with that completely inappropriate announcement, she saunters toward the staircase like she’s the randy lady of the manor, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open.
“She’s going to arrange herself just the way you like?” I ask as my mind boggles trying not to imagine the sex-rated details.
Marshall tips his head at the thought. “Ms. Miller is quite the force of nature.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He gestures deeper into the mansion, and I follow him into the great room filled with expensive furniture and artwork, straight from the Rococo era.
The piano in the main sitting room sits silent for now, but I know it won’t stay that way for long.
Supernatural houses have their own ideas about ambiance, especially this one.
“Now then,” Marshall says, turning to face me with that intensity that makes it hard to think straight, “what’s so urgent that you needed to abandon the Pretty One’s bowling alley and recruit Ms. Miller as your chauffeur?”
I’m about to explain the whole desperate situation regarding my sudden and rather urgent need to contact Candace when Ezrina MacHatter emerges from the kitchen like something out of a tangle-haired nightmare.
Her crazy red tresses fly above her head like a tumbleweed, her pale face is lost in wild curls that seem to move of their own volition, and her thin red lips sit like a streak of blood against her porcelain skin.
Once upon a time, Ezrina hated me with the kind of passion most people reserve for their worst enemies, and the look she gives me now could probably turn me to stone without the Medusa pedigree.
“Oh my goodness, Ezrina, I’m so glad you’re here!” I shout, rushing toward her with my arms outstretched for a big, fat hug.
But apparently, a hug—fat, skinny, or invisible—is not in the cards. Instead, Ezrina hisses like an angry cat before recoiling at the sight of me. “Stay back, you cursed creature!”
“Ezrina, it’s okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice soothing and non-threatening, which is rich coming from someone who’s literally never been okay a day in her life.
“I’m from the future, and we’re friends now.
In fact, things work out really well between you and Nev, too.
You end up being incredibly happy together. ”
The shriek that comes out of Ezrina’s mouth shatters at least six different windows. No, seriously, glass is everywhere.
I cringe over at Marshall and mouth a quick sorry.
But Ezrina isn’t sorry. She hisses twice as loud, her eyes blazing with a newfound fury. “Blasphemy! Lies and blasphemy!”
She whirls toward Marshall with a threat in her eyes. “Sector, we will continue our conversation later.”
She turns back to me, and the hatred radiating from her is thicker than Paragon fog. “Cursed be you and your Celestra! You’ve destroyed us all!”
“Ezrina, wait!” I call after her. “I know you’re one of us, too!”
But she’s already disappearing in a giant cloud of red stars that sparkle and fade, leaving behind only the faint scent of sulfur and wounded pride in her wake.
“I’ve witnessed natural disasters with better outcomes,” Marshall says mildly.
“She really doesn’t like me.”
“That’s like saying the Black Plague was a minor cold.” Marshall moves closer, and suddenly the piano in the next room begins playing a slow, haunting, dare I say, romantic melody. “But now we’re finally alone.”
Before I can protest, he slides an arm around my waist and begins to sway to the music, pulling me into an impromptu slow dance right where we stand.
And sweet heavens, the man can dance. He moves with the kind of fluid grace that should probably come with a warning label, and he smells like trouble wrapped in designer cologne with a side of bad decisions ahead.
“Are you ready to make a few bad decisions?” he murmurs against my ear.
I gasp and pull back slightly. “Why do I always forget that you can read my mind?”
“One of my many talents.” His smile is pure sin. “Though I must say, your thoughts are particularly flattering tonight.”
“Marshall.” I try to inject some seriousness into my voice, which is difficult when he’s spinning me around his mansion as if we’re in some kind of supernatural ballroom.
“Logan and I want out. We want to go back to where we belong, to a future where we haven’t scrambled the past like a bad batch of eggs. ”
His eyebrow arches in that way that suggests he knows something I don’t. “Do you honestly believe that?”
“Believe what?”
“That your mother doesn’t realize exactly what’s happening. That any of this is an accident.”
The implication stops me cold. “You think she knows we’re turning the timeline into a supernatural omelet?”
“I think Candace Messenger doesn’t do anything by accident.” Marshall dips me so dramatically that I have to claw at his shoulders to keep from falling. “But you want to talk to her anyway.”
“I need to talk to her,” I correct. “Things are going haywire, and whether she knows it or not, I need your help getting her here. Besides, I’m starting to feel like we overstayed our welcome.
I want out. I want home. I want endless snuggles with my children.
I need you to contact my mother. That’s a direct order from your future wife. ”
His grin is slow and wicked. “My future wife.” He pulls me closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I do like the sound of that. Say it again.”
“Marshall—”
“Say it again, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
I glare up at him, but my traitorous pulse is doing far too much gymnastics for it to ever be safe. “Fine. Your future wife commands you to—”
He dips me suddenly, dramatically, his face inches from mine. “Commands? I prefer begging.”
“I don’t beg.”
“Yet.” He pulls me back up, spinning me once more before stepping back with that infuriating smirk, still swaying to the ghostly beat, his fingers tracing patterns on my spine that definitely weren’t taught in any dance class. “And what’s in it for me?”
“In it for you?” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “This isn’t a negotiation, Marshall. I need you to contact my mother.”
“Everything’s a negotiation.” He spins me out, then pulls me back harder than necessary, my body colliding with his. “Especially between us.”
“There is no us.”
“Not yet.” His hand slides to the small of my back, holding me against him. “But there will be. You calling me your future husband proves that.”
“I said future wife. Your future wife.” My lips invert because I hate it when my own mouth paints me in a celestial corner. Or in this case, a matrimonial corner. “Future wife is different.” I double down on the verbal debacle.
“Is it?” He dips me low, his face hovering above mine, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re already mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
“You’re delusional.”
“I’m patient.” He pulls me up slowly, deliberately, making me feel every inch of contact. “And very, very persuasive.”
“Just get my mother.”
“Say please.” His voice drops to something dangerous. “Better yet, say, ‘Please, Marshall, my devastatingly handsome future husband.’”
“I will literally set your pants on fire.”
“Promises, promises.” He grins, spinning me one last time before releasing me completely, leaving me oddly cold without his touch.
“I’ll fetch your mother. But Ms. Messenger?
” He takes off and pauses at the massive front door, looking back with eyes that promise trouble.
“Every favor has a price. And I always collect.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left standing alone, my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.
“Whatever,” I mutter, showing myself out.
The walk to the Oliver house feels longer in the dark, with fog creeping between the trees and the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs somewhere in the distance.
From halfway down the street, I can see the familiar two-story house lit up like a peach with warm light spilling from every orifice.
Through the kitchen window, I can see Emma and Dr. Oliver moving around, probably getting ready for dinner.
There’s no sign of Gage, even though his truck is in the driveway—not that he’d want to talk to me after our conversation at the bowling alley. And as much as I love Dr. Oliver like a second father, I’m not in the mood to deal with Emma and her particular brand of witchy passive-aggression tonight.
I’m about to head over to Ellis’ house instead when an all too familiar white truck barrels down the street, headlights flashing at me like a greeting. My heart does a little leap of relief as Logan pulls up to the curb and rolls down his window.
“Need a ride, beautiful?” he calls out with that crooked smile that somehow makes me forget I’m trapped in my teenage body with my psychotic mother orchestrating this nightmare.
“Always,” I say, climbing into the passenger seat. “I’m not going far. I’m headed to your place.” I guess I’m heading to the Olivers’ after all.
Sometimes, when your world is falling apart and you’re trapped in the wrong timeline with supernatural beings who may or may not be plotting against you, the only anchor you need is the person who knows exactly how to find you in the dark.