Chapter 31
Skyla
The rest of the week rolls by, and by some miracle, I’ve ambled my way to Friday afternoon.
The woods behind West Paragon High smell like pine needles and dirty teenage secrets, along with damp earth and that unmistakable scent of hidden drama and whispered confessions.
The towering evergreens create a natural barrier between the school and the wilderness, their branches swaying in the afternoon breeze while pencil-gray clouds filter what little light this gloomy day has to offer.
Marshall leans against one of the massive tree trunks, looking vexingly sexy and far too comfortable while I pace back and forth on the soft bed of fallen needles, my mind racing through every possible legal loophole in celestial law.
“There has to be some kind of recourse for her actions,” I say, probably for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. “I need to see the Justice Alliance. I need to take my mother to celestial court.”
Marshall looks patiently amused, as if he’s been waiting for me to work through this particular, and rather futile, fantasy. “That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because she is the celestial judge and jury as far as faction matters are concerned.”
I stop pacing and stare at him. “You’re right.”
Candace Messenger sits on just about every council that determines celestial law for faction disputes. Taking her to celestial court would be like asking her to prosecute herself. I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can stop myself from spinning in a circle.
“But there has to be some kind of oversight committee that keeps celestial beasts in check,” a roar of thunder shakes the earth, probably sent straight from the beast in question, “some higher authority—”
“There is. It’s called the Decision Council, and your mother is one of its most influential members.”
“So, what you’re saying is we’re completely screwed.”
“In terms of conventional legal recourse, yes.”
I resume pacing, and my frustration only seems to build with each step.
“If only I could see the future, and how I wish I could see the future—ironically not the one that I was a participating member of. If I could just get a glimpse of what she’s really planning, maybe I could figure out how to stop it. ”
Marshall sheds a devilish grin that makes my stomach drop to middle earth.
“No way,” I say immediately, recognizing that lusty look of his. “Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. That expression says everything, and the answer is flat-out no.”
“You don’t even know what I was thinking.”
“You were thinking about the fact that kissing you would give me a vision of the future. And you were wondering if maybe this would be a good time to use that prehensile tongue of yours to get a little action.”
Okay, so I know I’ve talked ad nauseam about Marshall’s prehensile tongue, but not only is it true, it bears repeating. That thing has its own skill set, resume, and probably a LinkedIn profile. Michelle Miller once fainted just watching him eat an ice cream cone. I nearly fainted, too.
“Messenger!” a cheerful voice cuts through our increasingly tense conversation, and I turn to see Ellis Harrison emerging from the tree line with that particular brand of stoned confidence that only he can pull off.
His sandy blond hair falls across his forehead in waves, his eyes are red and glossy—red, white, and blue, as he likes to point out because he’s the all-American boy when he gets stoned—but regardless of his chemically altered state, there’s something genuinely sweet about Ellis that makes it impossible not to love him.
“Ellis,” I say, genuinely happy to see him despite the terrible timing. “What are you doing, lurking in the woods?”
Ellis gives a slight nod, and his glossy eyes glitter with what little light Paragon has doled out. “Kegger at my place tonight. I’ll provide the booze; you provide the hoes. I want the entire cheer squad front and center. And the rest of your friends, too—just the hot ones.”
I’d love to frown at him, but I can’t help but smile. He’s just so genuinely Ellis. That’s one thing the past is good at giving us—the most genuine versions of ourselves, albeit unpolished for the most part. Or in Ellis’ case, very thorny and horny version—not that he’s changed.
“I don’t have any friends outside of the bitch squad,” I tell him. And even that’s debatable.
“Language,” Marshall grumbles under his breath, and I shrug up at him in lieu of an apology.
Ellis scoffs my way. “Then have Chloe bring her hot friends. We need more girls.”
I shake my head. “I hate to break it to you, but Chloe doesn’t specialize in friends either. She specializes in enemies.”
True as gospel in the past, present, and the future. I’ll give it to Chloe, she’s dependably toxic.
“I’ll provide the girls,” Marshall says tersely, and I can tell he’s trying to get rid of Ellis so we can carry on with the circular conversation at hand—but according to that glimmer in Marshall’s eye, I can tell he’s dead serious, too.
He glances my way and frowns. “There happens to be a meeting at my house tonight. A group of my friends is dropping by from England. Women, of course.”
“Of course.” Now it’s me frowning. “Did you say England?” I can’t help but frown at him twice as hard.
“Or more to the point, that jolly old porthole from days of yore by way of that haunted mirror? Marshall, are you hauling in those seventeenth-century hoes again so soon? Isn’t there some kind of cooling-off period required between historical hooker conventions?
I mean, Emma runs the HOA around those parts with an iron Oliver fist—surely there are regulations about supernatural brothel activities. ”
Want to hang red curtains? Emma Oliver will hang you.
Ellis inches back and looks momentarily perplexed, and for the life of me, I can’t remember if Ellis is caught up to speed at this point on Marshall’s obsession with hookers from yesteryear.
Heck, I’m not sure if I’m technically caught up to speed on all things Marshall Dudley at this point in time.
It’s one thing to light drive to the past, it’s another to remember what goes where and when. As with most things, I blame my mother for this.
“It’s a hard no to the ladies of London,” I tell him.
“Dover,” Marshall corrects. “I’m afraid my meeting with the young ladies will be cut short. Once we’re through, I’ll walk them across the street and hand them off to the Chemically Deluded One.”
“Whoa, I’m not into chemicals, Dudley,” Ellis is quick to protest.
“That’s right,” Marshall says. “You prefer the devil’s lettuce.”
“You better believe it.” Ellis laughs as he walks backward. “And don’t get any funny ideas. I’m not sharing my treasures with anyone.”
Marshall narrows his eyes my way. “And yet I’m forced to share mine.”
Heat creeps up my neck because that comment is loaded with about seventeen different meanings, none of which I want to unpack in front of Ellis.
“Your treasures are your business,” I say carefully.
“Are they?” Marshall’s smile is pure sin. “Because it seems like everyone has an opinion about how I should manage my assets.”
Ellis inches back. “Dude, I think I need to be a little more high to understand this conversation. I’m off to find some normal people to invite to my blowout.”
“Good luck with that,” I call after him. “Normal people are in short supply around here.”
“Tell me about it,” Ellis shouts back, disappearing into the trees with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests he’s already planning this evening’s pharmaceutical adventures.
Marshall turns his full attention back to me, and I can practically see his fiery wheels turning.
“So,” he says, stepping closer, “about that vision.”
“Nope. Not happening.”
“You said yourself you need to see the future.”
“I said I wish I could see the future. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you have a perfectly viable option right in front of you.”
I take a step back, hitting the rough bark of a pine tree. “Marshall, kissing you is like taking a psychedelic and toying with my sanity. Every time I do it, I see things that make my head spin for weeks.” Not to mention what it does to the rest of me.
“But you see the truth.”
“Sometimes. Other times, I see completely random nonsense that has nothing to do with anything.” But I definitely feel things.
“And sometimes,” Marshall says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my knees melt on cue, “you see exactly what you need to see.”
He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne mixing with the forest air, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. There’s something hypnotic about Marshall when he’s like this, nothing but focused intensity and supernatural magnetism.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“Most of the best ideas are.”
“Logan will kill you.”
“The Pretty One will understand that desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Gage will never forgive me.”
“Jock Strap isn’t speaking to you anyway.”
That hits harder than it should, and Marshall must see something in my expression because his own face softens slightly.
“Skyla,” he says quietly. “You’re trapped in a timeline that’s destroying everything you love.
Your mother has made it clear that she has no intention of releasing you.
If there’s even a chance that seeing the future could give you the information you need to escape this situation, isn’t it worth the risk? ”
I stare up at him, weighing the pros and cons of what he’s suggesting.
On one hand, kissing Marshall has always been dangerous territory—the visions are unpredictable and often more confusing than helpful.
On the other hand, we’re running out of options, and desperate times do indeed call for desperate kisses, I mean, measures.
The sound of wind through the trees and the distant hum of traffic from the school parking lot are all we hear, save for the fact the forest is silent.
This feels like the kind of moment where major decisions get made, where the trajectory of everything changes based on a single choice. Where major regrets are born.
“If I do this—” I start, and Marshall’s smile becomes triumphant and predatory. I shake my head and step sideways, away from the tree and away from him. “No. I can’t.”
Marshall’s expression shifts to something between disappointment and frustration. “Skyla—”
“No,” I repeat more firmly. “I’m married, Marshall. To Logan. And to Gage, even if he doesn’t remember it yet. I can’t keep using you as my personal crystal ball every time things get complicated.”
“This isn’t about marriage. This is about survival.”
“Everything is about marriage when you’re married,” I say, surprised by how certain I sound. “I’ll find another way to figure out what Candace has planned. One that doesn’t involve betraying the people I love.”
Marshall stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him processing this unexpected turn of events. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Probably. But it’s my mistake to make.”
He nods slowly, and there might be a glimmer of respect in his eyes, but mostly there’s a smugness that assures me I’ll regret this.
“Fair enough,” he says with a slight bow. “But when this all goes to hell, don’t say I didn’t offer to help.”
“When this goes to hell, I’ll deal with the consequences.”
Who are we kidding?
It’s already gone to hell.