Chapter 25 #2
“I’m sure he is,” Emma replies with a knowing look. “Though I hope you’re not getting too distracted by his teaching methods.”
Logan taps his foot against mine under the table, probably to keep me from saying something that will start another faction war right here in the kitchen.
“Dudley is harmless,” Gage says, and there’s something in his tone that makes me shoot him a sharp look.
Everyone knows that Marshall is anything but.
The man is a danger in designer suits, and every supervising spirit from here to eternity knows it.
“He just likes to think he’s God’s gift to women,” Gage continues.
I wince because he sort of is.
“Aren’t you two friends?” Dr. Oliver asks, clearly confused by the undercurrents swirling around his dinner table.
“I’m not friends with Dudley,” Gage is quick to clarify, taking a bite of his vegetables with more force than strictly necessary.
“We heavily dislike most school faculty,” Logan says with a shrug. “We’re teenagers.”
I shoot him a look, too, because teenagers are the last people to admit they’re teenagers.
I clear my throat. “What Logan meant to say is, we have a complicated relationship with faculty.”
“Speaking of complicated relationships,” Emma says, seizing her opening like Marshall cornering Michelle Miller in his bedroom—not that she’s playing hard to get.
“I think it’s wonderful that you’re expanding your social circle, Gage.
The Bishop girl seems very vivacious and full of life—that is, after your father pumped her full of Skyla’s blood.
” She belts out a laugh as if to punctuate the cosmic joke.
Oh good, we’re discussing how my blood literally runs through my romantic rival’s veins.
This isn’t awkward at all. Maybe for dessert, we can discuss how she also has my hand.
Nothing says family dinner like, Hey, remember when I was Chloe’s personal blood bank?
And now she gets to give my boyfriend a hand job with my own appendage?
That’s right, rub it in. I’m the reason Chloe Bishop has breath in her lungs—at least for this go around. I shoot Dr. O a dirty look for his part in the malfeasance.
“Vivacious,” I muse. “Now that’s one word to describe Chloe.”
“Oh, Skyla,” Emma says with a mocking tone, “I hope you’re not going to be one of those girls who can’t be happy for her friend’s new relationship.”
“No, I’m thrilled,” I say through gritted teeth as I look at Gage. “Absolutely ecstatic for you, my friend.”
“Good, because jealousy is such an unattractive quality,” Emma continues, serving herself more vegetables with the enthusiasm of a woman who is really enjoying the hell out of herself.
“Besides, you have Logan now, so there’s really no reason to be concerned about what Gage does with his personal time—or with whom. ”
Something tells me that if Emma caught Gage and Chloe going at it, she wouldn’t run away screaming, she’d grab the popcorn, or better yet, grab her camera and snap a few pictures for that bloated scrapbook collection of hers. Gage alone has thirty-two volumes and counting.
Logan cringes a little as he dares to glance my way.
I knew it was a bad idea to come here. We should have gone to Ellis’.
At least then we’d be comfortably stoned and working on our second beers.
And believe me, I’d rather be stoned and drunk while trying to go at it on a pool table with Logan than sitting through dinner with Emma, no matter what timeline I’m in.
Dr. Oliver looks between us as if he’s watching a tennis match played with passive-aggressive missiles. “You know, maybe we should talk about something else. How about those Cerberus Dawgs? You boys are looking good out there.”
“Football is so boring,” Emma is quick to dismiss the beloved pastime of this country. “I much prefer talking about real life. Real relationships. Real feelings.”
Real feelings? Oh, Emma, you don’t want my real feelings. My real feelings would melt the silverware and set the curtains on fire. My real feelings would get me permanently banned from every Oliver family event from now until the heat death of the universe.
Please. If she only knew how fake Chloe Bishop was, she’d have an aneurysm. How’s that for reality?
For a second, I envision Emma unconscious with a dribble of blood oozing from one nostril.
A smile plays on my lips, and I do my best to suppress it. I can’t help it. Dark thoughts make me happy sometimes. Okay, so that was bad even for me.
“Some feelings are better left private,” Logan says quietly, and I could kiss him for trying to rescue me.
“Oh, nonsense,” Emma waves her hand dismissively. “Communication is absolutely key to a good relationship. Don’t you think so, Gage?”
“I do think so, Mom,” Gage parrots right back like a good little boy. “In fact, I think people should be completely honest about what they want and who they want it with.” He shoots a cold glance at both Logan and me.
The tension in the room reaches critical mass—the kind that usually ends with someone storming out or knocking over furniture. I’m calculating the distance to the nearest exit when Gage’s phone buzzes against the table.
He glances at it, and his whole body language shifts. “I need to take this,” he says, already standing up. “Chloe wants to talk.”
And just like that, I see red. Not metaphorically—like actual spots of crimson fury dancing at the edges of my vision, blinding me with rage.
Chloe.
Of all the people in the world for Gage to run to, he chooses the one person guaranteed to make my blood boil like lava. Gage chose the one person who’d happily dance on my grave in designer heels. The one person who’s made destroying me her full-time hobby.
“How lovely,” Emma says with a gasp of satisfaction. “It really is so nice that you’re branching out socially.”
Gage shoots her a look that could freeze hell twice over, but he’s already heading for the door. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Of course, dear,” Emma calls after him. “Please wish her well. And have lots and lots of f-u-n!”
In my mind, she totally spelled another F word. I think she’s asking Gage to read between the fun lines as well.
The front door closes behind him with enough force to rattle the windows, leaving the rest of us sitting around the table in the kind of awkward silence that makes you wonder if spontaneous combustion is a real possibility. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping for.
“Well,” Dr. Oliver says after a moment of stillness, “that was subtle.”
“I should probably go,” I say, already starting to stand.
“Actually,” Logan interrupts, “we both should. Thanks for dinner.”
Emma’s smile never wavers, even as she watches her carefully orchestrated evening fall apart—or rather into place. “Of course. You two have a lovely rest of the night.”
What? No well wishes and commands to have lots and lots of f-u-n? Maybe it’s me who should share an F word with her.
Logan and I escape to the backyard, where the night air feels like a benediction after the suffocating hell of the kitchen.
The Olivers’ backyard is exactly as I remember it—a small patch of grass surrounded by towering pine trees that create a natural barrier between their house and the wilderness beyond.
The pool is covered and blanketed with leaves.
Of course, it’s still the way it looks in the future, but that’s beside the point.
I’m about to say something when I spot a familiar silhouette perched on the back fence.
Nevermore sits like a king surveying his domain, his massive black form glows against the star-scattered sky.
He’s easily the size of an eagle—or a toddler, with eyes that gleam with an intelligence that’s definitely not standard for your average winged creature.
His feathers catch the moonlight like oil on water, and when he turns his head to look at us, I swear I can see ancient wisdom in those dark, knowing eyes.
“Nev!” I sing as tears prick at my eyes for reasons I can’t quite explain.
My sweet raven cocks his head, and suddenly everything I’ve been holding inside comes pouring out.
I’m spilling my guts like he’s my feathered therapist. I clutch him tight and dump everything—the time-travel prison sentence, watching everyone’s lives implode because Logan and I are apparently temporal wrecking balls.
The fact my parents are thinking about cruising instead of baby-making, which means bye-bye Misty—not that my mother needs Tad for that equation to work out, but still.
Gage is choosing Chloe’s poison lips over common sense.
Drake thinks leather makes him dangerous instead of ridiculous.
And someone is going to die on that ski trip while I sit here, powerless to stop any of it.
We’re not anchoring ourselves to this timeline—we’re setting it on fire and watching it burn.
Logan wraps his arms around me while I trauma-dump on a supernatural bird in a dark backyard, and somehow that feels like the most normal thing that’s happened all day. Plus, this way we can both hear Nev’s responses.
That’s heavy, even for supernatural drama, Nev acknowledges.
But you’re assuming you have more power than you do.
Big events—births, deaths, love—they find a way to happen.
The universe is annoyingly persistent like that.
He pecks gently at my hair. At least you two have common sense to worry about consequences.
Unlike my previous owner, who thought gifting sentient beings was an appropriate courtship strategy.
I wrinkle my nose. It’s true, Chloe gifted Nev to Gage way back when in an effort to woo him before I landed on Paragon. Or he could be referencing Gage, who basically did the very same thing when he gifted Nev to me.
Logan’s phone buzzes at the exact moment mine does, the stereo notifications interrupting my complete emotional collapse.
We both pull out our phones and stare at identical text messages.
It’s from my mother.
Let’s have a conversation. Devil’s Peak. One hour.
“Well,” Logan says, blowing a stream of fog through his nostrils, “that’s ominous.”
“Or it’s our saving grace. Logan, we are going home.” I hope.
I look up at Nevermore, who’s still watching us with those impossibly intelligent eyes, and I can’t shake the feeling that he knows exactly what’s waiting for us on that cliffside.
The most dangerous conversations always happen in the most beautiful places, and Devil’s Peak has a body count to prove it.