Chapter 34
Skyla
The silence that follows my impromptu smooch session with Marshall is the kind that makes you acutely aware of how badly you’ve just screwed up your life.
The seventeenth-century hookers have stopped their raucous laughter, the ghostly piano has gone quiet, and even the crackling fire seems to be holding its breath.
Both Logan and Gage stare at me in horror, and it seems my lip-locking actions with the sultry Sector seem to have stopped them in their happy-to-see-me tracks.
Okay, so Gage isn’t so happy to see me as of late, but that’s beside the point. He’s here.
Gage stands with his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely keeping himself from completely losing control. His eyes blaze with a fury that makes the blood freeze in my veins.
“Gage—” I start, but he’s already moving.
He takes three quick strides, pulls back his fist, and clocks Marshall hard enough to send him flying backward into a gaggle of corseted wenches who definitely didn’t see that coming.
“That’s for being you,” Gage growls, then turns on his heel and stalks out of the mansion without another word. He may not have any words for me, but he certainly had an action that showed me that he still cares.
Marshall straightens with one hand pressed to his jaw, his expression carrying that rueful look of someone who’s been punched by angry boyfriends before.
“Well,” he says mildly, “that could have gone better.” He nods my way. “Kindly inform Jock Strap that he just signed his own death warrant—I’m simply choosing the execution date.”
I wince because I know firsthand that Marshall’s threats are more or less promises. And he always delivers on his promises.
In an instant, every woman in the room volunteers to tend to him.
A lively wench in a hot pink gown and bright orange hair steps in. “I’ll kiss every inch of ya, and make it better.” The entire lot of them breaks out in boisterous laughter.
Another hussy in a lime green gown paws at his face. “I volunteer as nurse. Full body examination, no charge.”
“Marshall,” I extract him from their midst. “Are you okay?”
This causes another peal of laughter to filter through the place.
“I’ll live. Though I suspect my ego might need medical attention.” He lifts a brow to see if I’ll volunteer for the effort before he decides to farm it out.
But before I can respond, Logan steps in, his face cycling through expressions like a slot machine—shock, confusion, barely contained rage. He walks over to me, ignoring Marshall entirely.
“What did you see?” Logan’s voice cuts through the room like a gunshot.
The vision still burns behind my eyes, nothing but faction wars and empty spaces where laughter should be. My hands shake as I grip his arm. “The war goes on as planned, but our children—they’ve been erased. All of them, Logan. It’s like they never existed.”
Logan’s face drains of color before a rage so pure takes over, it makes the air around us crackle. “We need to speak to her right away.”
“No.” I grab his arm as he starts toward the door, my fingers digging into his jacket. “We need to speak to someone else.”
“Who?” Logan growls with venom.
“Demetri.”
Logan stares at me like I’ve just suggested we have tea with the devil. His mouth opens and closes twice before words come out.
“Demetri?” he sighs hard. “I’d rather light myself on fire.”
Marshall grunts, “That can be arranged, but it won’t solve the problem.”
I shoot him a look before reverting to Logan. “If Candace is plotting to erase our children from existence, I want to know if her ex-boyfriend is in on it like she suggested.”
Logan’s head tilts as he processes this. “That’s...” He pauses to run his fingers through his hair. “Actually, not a terrible idea.”
I grab his hand and pull him toward the door, my heels clicking urgently against Marshall’s marble floor. “Come on. We’re going to get some answers, and we’re going to get them now.”
We burst out of Marshall’s mansion and into the Paragon night, where the fog has thickened to the point I can barely see my own feet.
The eerie moon cuts through the mist in patches, casting everything in silver light and dark shadows while the bass from Ellis’ party thrums faintly in the distance like a dying heartbeat.
“We should probably drive,” Logan says, squinting into the murky darkness.
“Let’s take the fun way, instead.”
Within seconds, we tap into that supernatural speed that comes with being members of the factions, feeling that familiar electric tingle race through my veins as our speed defies logic and gravity.
Logan matches my pace as we tear across the island, our feet barely touching the ground as we move through the fog like bullets through cotton.
Pine trees blur into dark smears, rocky outcroppings become mere suggestions along the landscape, and the occasional glimpse of the Pacific Ocean flickers through the mist like a broken television.
The sounds from the party fade to nothing, replaced by the wind rushing past our ears and the distant crash of waves against invisible shorelines.
Halfway to Demetri’s estate, Marshall materializes beside us, his coat billowing dramatically as he keeps perfect pace despite his recent encounter with Gage’s fist, only it doesn’t look as if Marshall is running, more like floating.
“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” he says with a tip of his head.
Demetri’s mansion rises from the fog like something from a Gothic nightmare, with its imposing spires and stone gargoyles that seem to track our every move with eyes that glint in the moonlight.
The place dwarfs Marshall’s estate, sprawling across grounds that stretch into the mist and disappear entirely.
Warm light spills from dozens of windows, revealing glimpses of supernatural artifacts and mounted trophies.
I hate everything about this place, but right now, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t hate Demetri just yet.
We storm through the front doors without bothering to knock—because honestly, when you’re dealing with the devil himself, social niceties seem a bit pointless.
The interior of Demetri’s castle screams wealth and ego in equal measure. Ceilings soar at least thirty feet high, supported by carved columns that were probably yanked straight from Rome.
Portraits of beautiful women line the walls in ornate frames, and I can’t help but notice several of them bear an unsettling resemblance to my mother—the one who raised me.
Each one is a little more revealing than the last. And in each one my mother looks to be in the throes of ecstasy.
Heaven help. How have I never noticed these before?
Most likely I’ve trauma-blocked them from my memory.
Demetri’s art collection is proof that money can’t buy taste, but it can buy restraining orders, or at least lead to them. Not that my mother would pursue that logical legal direction.
None of this is a shocker. His obsession with Lizbeth Landon knows no bounds.
And oddly, I wonder if this is his way of trying to hurt Candace for dumping him.
Stalk her daughter’s adoptive mother instead—totally normal rebound behavior.
It reeks of major see-you-at-the-holidays energy.
There’s no better way to hurt an ex than to make them look at you with someone else. Case in point, Chloe and Gage.
The air reeks of expensive cologne mixed with something darker—blood and pine, like a killer trying to cover up his crimes with air freshener. The floors are a glossy marble, the woodwork is as dark as Demetri Edinger’s soul, and everything that allows for it is coated with gold.
We find Demetri exactly where I expected—draped across a massive leather chair by a roaring fire with a crystal tumbler in hand, filled with something dark and sinister.
His midnight-colored hair catches the firelight in perfect waves, his high cheekbones create sinister shadows across his face, and that black cape he’s wearing pools around him like liquid darkness.
Why the heck is Demetri wearing a cape? I’m suddenly befuddled, but before I lose my momentum, I step his way.
“We have questions.”
His dark eyes gleam with amusement at the fact that we’ve stormed into his domain, and his signature grin spreads across his features as if he’s been expecting us all evening.
“Well, well, well.” His voice carries that debonair charm reserved for vampires and serial killers alike—and villains who wear capes. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Though I suspect this isn’t a social call, given the murderous expressions each of you is wearing.” He nods to Marshall. “Sector.”
“Edinger.” Marshall nods back, and there’s an amused undercurrent in his voice.
“Highball, anyone?” Demetri holds up his drink with that grin of his ever widening.
“Cut the act,” I say. “We know what’s going on.” Or at least a part of it.
“Do you?” His eyebrows arch with pure delight, and he leans forward in his chair like a wolf who just spotted wounded prey. “How fascinating. Please, enlighten me.”
Logan steps forward, his entire body coiled like a spring, ready to snap. “Candace is planning to erase our children from existence. And we want to know if you’re part of it.”
Demetri throws back his head and laughs—rich and genuine, as if he’s absolutely delighted. “Part of it? My dear boy, I’m absolutely opposed to it.”
The words hit me like a blow to the chest. My mouth falls open as I process what he’s just admitted. No denials, no manipulation, no clever wordplay—just a straight confirmation of our worst fears. My mother is the true devil in disguise.
“Wait,” I interrupt with something nagging at me. “What about the anchor? Candace said we needed to create this temporal anchor to protect our family.”
Demetri’s laugh is rich and genuinely amused. “Oh, the anchor exists. But it’s not protection—it’s a catalyst. Your dear mother needed a fixed point in your timeline to ensure her manipulations would stick.”