Celestra: Books 1-2

by Addison Moore

  She gets up and gives me a warm, lingering hug.

  “There is so precious little we can save of ourselves, better to save it for that perfect person. Just think about waiting.” She makes it to the door. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if your special person was Gage. I think I can really see this.” She gives a mischievous smile. “Engaged.”

  “Funny.” My features smooth out at the lack of humor in it.

  She shuts the door tight behind her.

  I press my hand against the plywood that covers the hole where my window once stood. I can feel the world come alive on the other side, the rain needling its intense vibrations.

  Even my mother thinks I’m going to marry Gage. It’s beginning to feel like a conspiracy.

  35

  Homecoming

  The field is damp from the shower we had earlier, but tonight there’s not a veil of fog, not a dark cloud up above, just the crisp arctic chill I’ve become accustomed to.

  Ms. Richards lets us do free style for the rest of the game. It’s the end of the second quarter, and the West Paragon Dawgs are up by six. There’s only one more game in the season, and it’s an away game. I’m so psyched about this I can hardly stand it. Away, as in away from Mom and Tad, away from conversations about weird sexual invites. I totally need to get away.

  The homecoming floats are driven onto the field. It’s surreal being here knowing I’ve time traveled to last year’s homecoming game with Ellis on more than one occasion. I half expect Chloe to step up on that platform in her powder blue dress.

  I’m so winded I stop moving. My arms and legs feel like rubber and it takes everything in me not to collapse on the field.

  Principal Rice taps the microphone and a loud obtrusive hum threatens to blow our eardrums out from over the speakers.

  She starts in and introduces a row of girls in frilly dresses.

  God—my mother could have dressed them. I don’t really know who they are, mostly seniors. The principal crowns a king, some guy I don’t know either but everyone screams for, then with a bit more fanfare a queen. All the while I can’t stop thinking about Chloe. Ellis wants to go back tonight and refresh his stash—odd day to go, if you ask me.

  Michelle motions for us to pick up the free kicks, so we do. It takes everything in me to rotate and bounce for the crowd, even a smile seems impossible to produce with this drenching fatigue.

  Skyla. Marshall waves briefly from the front row bleachers. Kick higher, I can’t see your panties.

  I turn away from him abruptly. Can’t see my panties? What an ass. I’m wearing kick-pants, but information like that seems beside the point with someone like him.

  I’ve offended you. I apologize. Kick-pants aside, I have another vision I’d like to share.

  I keep forgetting he can hear me now that I’ve bled down to a simpleton. I hate the fact I’ve ebbed away my powers.

  No thanks. The last thing I need to be doing is kissing Marshall on a regular basis.

  It’s about the one who dumped you. It’s a rather intriguing scenario I think you’d better see for yourself.

  I think I’ll pass.

  I look across the field and see Logan getting ready to put back on his helmet. He lasers through me with a penetrating stare. I stop all movement and gaze right back at him. Just looking at Logan makes everything else melt away like a bad dream.

  The coach whistles, and he’s gone, lost in the crowd of bodies once again.

  Everything feels so temporary.

  I start to feel weak again, the ground feels like it’s rolling in waves and I steady myself a minute so I don’t pass out. My hands loosen and the pom-poms slip right through my fingers, just like Logan.

  Come to me, Skyla. This vision brings you peace, not to mention the pleasure of my company.

  No. If Logan would rather I be with Gage then that’s what he’s going to get.

  ***

  After the game, Brielle insists on changing at my house for the homecoming dance.

  “Brought you something!” She barks out a laugh as though it were hysterical.

  “Keep it down.” She’s already wasted, and it’s just barely nine.

  Mom and Tad think I’m alone, that I’m already tucked in bed crying over the fact I’m not going to the dance. Brielle screeching and screaming isn’t going to help me sneak out any faster. I swear, teaching Brielle how to navigate the wonderful world of the butterfly room has brought me nothing but sleepless nights and well, this.

  “Here.” She produces a black velvet choker sprayed with smoky grey rhinestones. “It’s totally hot, plus it’ll cover that thing that looks like a zipper on your neck.”

  “I got the stitches out,” I say, taking off my scarf and trading it for said hot necklace thingy. “This is so awesome!” It glitters with the slightest movement.

  I pull on the dress Marshall gave me and turn to look in the full-length mirror attached to my closet door.

  “Skyla!” She gasps.

  It’s form fitting. To call it short would underestimate the actual breathtaking length that cuts off just below my underwear.

  “This is not good,” I lament.

  “Didn’t you try it on?”

  “No.” I give a hard exhale.

  “Here.” Brielle tugs a little, and it gives enough to look semi-decent.

  “At least I won’t get arrested.” I turn in the mirror and take a look at it from behind. It’s backless as far down as it can go, save for rows and rows of dark metallic chains crisscrossing from one side to the other.

  “It is so freaking hot on you!” Brielle slaps her mouth after she shrieks the words out.

  “It’s going to get freaking shitty when my mom busts through the door.” I push my finger up to my lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Drake left an hour ago, giving Mom and Tad yet more false assurance I wasn’t going. Really he’s just next door. He parked around the corner to hide his car and he’s watching TV with Bree’s mom.

  We call Drake and let him know we’re coming. I push the dresser securely in front of the door before helping Brielle up into the butterfly room.

  It’s freezing outside. The cold fingers of the wind coil themselves around the chains on my back, and turn them into ice against my bare flesh.

  “Hey.” She points down to my feet. “You forgot your shoes.”

  “Crap.” That means I have to hurdle three rooflines and crawl all the way back into the attic.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got the perfect pair to lend you.” Brielle’s whole person ignites with a burst of energy. “I wore them my first time. Maybe you’ll get lucky?”

  “Doubtful.” I haven’t sent out the invitation yet.

  Logan cycles through my mind. Then again, he probably doesn’t want it. I thought he’d at least fight for me—I thought he’d die trying.

  36

  Put on Your Red Shoes

  Red patent leather pumps with four-inch heels. I feel ridiculous.

  Drake drives us down to the Paragon Beach Resort through a moonless night. A harsh wind has evicted the fog, and thousands upon thousands of crystalline stars pour out their glory in a choir of radiant luminescence.

  The resort is lit up like a jewel, glowing and polished. A trail of limos stretch a half a block long, but in an effort to avoid valet and parking fees, Drake parks at the Jack-in-the-Box across the street.

  I pull Brielle in tight as we make our way over to the cobbled pathway that leads to the entrance of the hotel. “There are tons of people here!”

  “They’re from East. We do all the big stuff like prom and shit on the same night.”

  “Nice.” My stomach does a harsh roll.

  The entry is comprised of ornate carved marble. Giant stone lions keep watch on either side with their fixed sterile gaze.

  The thick scent of perfume and cologne explode in the lobby and it makes me feel lightheaded as we enter a room marked Grand Ballroom to our left. A dim cavernous hall is lit up with
thousands of twinkle lights, sheer fabric cascades across an army of chandeliers high up on the ceiling, like rolling waves of pink gossamer.

  “Hi!” Brielle screams at someone buried in the sea of bodies before taking off. Drake follows her like the puppy he is and I’m left alone in my ever-shrinking dress and glossy red hooker shoes. Maybe my mother dressing me wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all.

  Faces, too many faces—I pan the crowd then pause when I spot Logan standing just shy of the dance floor—a still life in the midst of a riot.

  He bows his head slightly and offers a seductive smile. His hair picks up the color from a blue spotlight up above, and it highlights him in an otherworldly way. I’m paralyzed by all his gorgeous glory.

  Just as I contemplate going over, someone tickles my ribs from behind and I almost break an ankle jumping in my clown heels.

  Gage swoops around, “Good God. This dress should be illegal. You are smokin’! Are you sure you don’t want to wear my jacket?” He looks beyond gorgeous in his suit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in one.

  “Thanks. And it might be illegal. Marshall gave it to me.” I’m pretty sure he didn’t buy it. Probably plucked it off some celestial vixen or a corpse.

  “Normally I wouldn’t want you to take things from him, but this happens to be a homerun.” He places his hand against my back and I can feel his skin against mine. It feels so intimate a wave of guilt washes over me.

  “How’s the injury?” He picks up my bloated purple hand and pulls a face. “My dad taught me a few tricks to help get your muscles back into shape once the swelling goes down. He says if it gets any worse, he’s got some antibiotics for you.”

  “I love the way you take care of me. It’s so sweet.” I pull his gaze into mine.

  The music switches gears, slow and steady as the bodies on the dance floor begin to sway hypnotically.

  “Come on.” Gage leads us onto the crowded wooden platform and digs us deep into the center of the crowd.

  He cages me in with those blue flames staring back at me. My stomach bottoms out as he pulls me in, places his warm arm low across my back. The sweet scent of cologne drifts softly from him and the very distinct scent of minty toothpaste escapes his lips.

  He grazes me with a kiss, then pulls away to see if it’s wanted.

  I’m not sure why being this close to Gage makes me nervous, sends butterflies to my stomach—Gage, who I’ve been melting all over for weeks to prove a point to all of Paragon and the Counts, that we’re together.

  He comes in again, presses his mouth against mine, and our teeth bump accidentally. I can’t hear the music, or feel my feet on the floor, or remember to breathe—I just float in the soft sea of his kisses.

  “Break it up.” Marshall pushes Gage back rather violently and takes his place. A quick smile appears as he pulls me in tight. An entire orchestra of intense vibrations fills me, and I can’t find the strength to protest.

  I watch as Gage drifts off the dance floor over to Logan.

  “Sunday, the population of Paragon will drain onto my property. Will you wear the wings for me?” Marshall looks past me as though he weren’t speaking to me at all.

  “No.”

  “I’ll give you five hundred dollars.”

  “Done.” My eyes spring open. I’d wear nothing but wings if he wanted me to, for less.

  “I can hold you to that.”

  “Forget it. I’m not that desperate for money.” I lay my head upon his chest. I’m so exhausted it takes everything in me to keep up with the rhythm. It feels like a major workout wearing heels like this. I’m not so sure I’m cut out to be a girl.

  “Not the shoes I would have chosen,” he says, “but it gives you that edgy flair so many young women gravitate toward these days. They’ll be a dozen dressed just like you at winter formal—wait and see.”

  “It’s slut fashion. They’re Brielle’s.”

  “That explains it. If I knew you were shoeless, I would have gladly given you a pair.”

  “Yeah, but they’d probably be magical.” As in magically landing me in his bed—more like cursed. “I’m powerless—can you give me an infusion?” I pull back, hopeful.

  “I can give you lots of things, Skyla, but that’s not necessary. Your blood will reconstitute in time, shortly in fact.”

  Marshall looks cutthroat handsome in this shadow-filled room. His entire person sparks like a flame. If I chose Marshall—become his wife—my father could live again. If there weren’t Logan or Gage…

  “You would choose me.” His expression sobers.

  “Well, don’t kill them. I love them.”

  “You love them both?” He ticks his head to the side considering this. “You know the entire universe frowns on such arrangements. They never work—always someone with a bitter heart. Of course, in this case it wouldn’t be you. The single gender is always the victor. Who’s the bitter heart? Logan or Gage?”

  “Logan.” I breathe his name in a demonic whisper.

  “I see.” His lips twitch. “And that’s the one you favor.”

  My heart breaks for Gage.

  “I don’t favor anyone.” It’s true.

  “Well, you don’t favor me, and that makes you a rare breed.” He pulls back a notch, rakes his eyes all over me. “How is this?” His features morph, just barely. They take him across the finish line until he completely replicates Logan in his exact eminence.

  “You’re still you,” it comes out breathless.

  Here I am, swaying to the droning rhythm of a very sad love song with a replica of Logan. A small part of it feels right—feels real. My heart tries to reject the idea, but I won’t let it. I want this moment anyway I can get it.

  Gage taps on his shoulder and evicts Marshall by way of his elbow.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” I say, pecking a quick kiss on his cheek.

  His dimples push in without a smile. I take in his clean scent as we finish up the tail end of the song. From behind his shoulder, I see Logan leaning up against the table pretending to hear whatever Lexy is saying, all the while staring right at us. To his left Michelle claws at Marshall for attention as desperate as ice in a fire.

  Marshall looks over and gives a wicked grin.

  He still looks suspiciously a lot like Logan.

  37

  One Enchanted Evening

  “Shit!” Carly drops her compact to the floor and slaps her hand over her mouth.

  I roll my eyes at Brielle and push past her into the ladies room.

  Napkins are laid out on a granite counter with the hotel initials embossed in gold, along with an assortment of perfume and a bin of hair products. A huge burgundy sofa sits nestled against the back wall. I love it when an entire living room acts as the entry to the actual restroom.

  “I thought you were dead!” Carly’s face bleeds out all color.

  “I am,” I say, examining myself in the mirror.

  “File that under who gives a shit,” Carson, the one who served toxic lemonade at her party a few weeks ago, swoops by in a creamy pink birthday cake of a dress that would make my mother proud. “Skank,” she hisses as they make their way out the door.

  “I hate them,” I say staring blankly at myself in the mirror.

  Brielle does her lips, then passes me her strawberry gloss. I not only managed to forget my shoes, but my purse and my cell, too.

  Brielle’s phone goes off, and she squints into it.

  “It’s Drake.” She pulls a face before heading back into the lobby.

  I should go out there and talk to Logan. I should ask for the Count file, or see what my hours are next week, or at least say hi, or maybe fall on him in these prostitute specials I’ve pressed my feet into and accidently dance with him.

  I open the door that leads into the actual restroom and choose a stall near the back. A lengthy battle with the paper seat covers ensues. I swear sometimes it sucks being a woman. Why couldn’t God make us so we stand up when we pee?
Was that asking too much?

  The lights go out, and there’s a palpable black silence.

  “Hello?” I say stupidly. Obviously someone turned out the lights and left. But wasn’t I the only one in here? “This isn’t funny.” My voice produces a stale echo.

  I close my eyes and open them, same effect—it’s beyond dark. I hold out my hand and swipe at the air as I try and reach for the stall door.

  It’s probably just an innocent mistake. There’s probably a switch at the entrance that any moron can lean up against or flip on their way out the door. Or maybe the entire facility lost power? I bet they’re all out there freaking out—girls screaming, guys scheming. I bet Michelle is taking advantage of this and dry humping Marshall, or worse, Lexy on Logan.

  I try to calm my nerves by thinking about how funny this is going to be once I finally make it outside. I clasp onto the metal latch, and the door swings open.

  Baby steps. That’s all I need to take. I swing my arms out wildly. Every step feels like I’m about to fall down a flight of stairs.

  Breathing? I hear breathing!

  “Hello?” My arm is yanked hard until I slam into something—a person. The waft of bitter cologne takes over, and before I realize it, my hands are both restrained behind my back.

  Lips graze against my choker. One of my hands is violently snatched from behind, and a mouth clamps down hard over my wrist. A sharp injection of pain slides across in a clean line. I can hear him slurping, sucking off my flesh like a bloodthirsty savage.

  “Stop!” I try to remember how Logan taught me to take someone down. Who knew it would be in the freaking dark? “Get off!” I end the last word in a shrill scream that rattles the windows. “I’m going to rip your balls off, swear to God, if you don’t get off of me!” I’m pinned so perfectly against the cold tiles behind me, it leaves me shivering—nauseated.