“What’s going on?” Skyla asks as we find a table. The thick scent of coffee is the first thing that lights up our senses.
“Looks like the oxygen bar is no more.” The oxygen bar was a very poor idea to begin with. Trying to digest your food while watching patrons inserting and removing plastic tubes from their noses did nothing for the atmosphere—let alone the appetites.
“Good riddance.” Skyla falls hard in her seat, and I help scoot her in. Her hair is disheveled, her mascara slightly smeared, but she’s still as beautiful as ever. I thought maybe today would be a good time to talk about what’s going on between us. As much as my body would beg to differ, it doesn’t feel right. I’m all for helping Skyla feel better, but I think I’ve jumped the bounds of good behavior. I’m not here to screw things up between her and Gage. And I very much still believe he’s out there.
“Afternoon. The usual?” Nevermore comes up with two cups of coffee and sets them down. Nev and Ezrina bought a roaster, as in they roast their own beans. I’m not sure there’s a better scent in the universe, with the exclusion of Skyla. Skyla is roses, lilacs, vanilla, and cinnamon, her own blend of perfect spices.
“If it’s not too much trouble, do you think I can have decaf?” Skyla glides the coffee toward him, and he happily picks it up.
“Not a problem.” Nev nods to me. “The couple in the back has aroused Rina’s suspicions.” He takes off, leaving me to crane my neck at a tall stalky man and a redheaded woman who looks as if she’s been sucking on a lemon. Probably tourists. Paragon gets her fair share. The island is lovely. You can’t blame the rest of the world for admiring her sheer scope and beauty.
“What do you feel like eating? Donuts? Omelets? I hear the saltimbocca melts in your mouth.”
“I’m not hungry.” She folds a napkin into the shape of a butterfly and drops it onto the table. The disappointment, the hollowness in her eyes has taken up residence.
“I talked to your mom—Lizbeth.” I reach over and interlace our fingers, and her eyes widen as if this were treason. “She says you’re hardly eating.” I’m not too worried because I know for a fact her energy levels are up in the evening.
“You talked to my mom?” It comes out peeved.
“She says she’s worried about you and Gage.”
“I let her know he’s away at Host. School stuff. She’s not a fan of his absence.” She arches her brows at me. “The Decision Council may have thought it was a good time for him to die, but I’m not buying it.” Nev drops off her coffee on his way to another table, and she perks right up. “There’s a faction meeting in a few weeks. I’ll be appointing a new officer for the education division. It’s something new I’ve been thinking about.”
“You’ve been banned, Skyla. They’re taking you to court. They think your leadership is deceptive because of your—”
“Union with a Fem.” She openly smirks at me. “Yes, I know. I was there. The threat of court, evisceration, decapitation, blah, blah, blah. I don’t really give a shit. You’ll be the temporary overseer until I can clear my name.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.” Determination is written all over her features. “I’m still running this celestial circus whether or not my mother likes it.”
“It’s not your mother who kicked you out of the hot seat. It was almost an unanimous decision. Besides, they won’t accept me. I’m in a Treble. And some still view me as a traitor toward Celestra. They’ll think I’m with the Barricade because of my ties to Gage—to you.”
She glances down, staring at her coffee through that thicket of lashes. Skyla has always had the most beautiful eyes, but those lashes…She made a point to run them over my abs last night. It was the best feeling, a surreal sensation. Everything about those heated, stolen nights has been surreal.
“Then I’ll have Dr. Booth take the role. People like him. He’s an established part of the Nephilim community. He’ll be your mouthpiece.”
“Why not cut the middle man and have him be your mouthpiece?”
She shakes her head, her lips still set in that perennial frown. “I’m not myself lately. My head is all over the place. I just can’t right now. I need you to carry me through this, Logan.” She leans in hard. “Help Celestra. Help the Nephilim for me. I’ll try my best to spring back into step.” Her eyes close as she tries to digest the thought. “Right now, all I can think about is getting Gage back. I think I might have to put my tail between my legs and grovel to my mother—although, traditionally, that gets me nowhere. There has to be something that will work.”
Coop and Laken waltz in, literally spinning and laughing, their lips finding one another as if they were on their first date. It’s nice to see them so in love, so very public about it. I wonder if Skyla and I will ever get to that point again. I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve to be that happy ever again after what I’ve done.
“Look who’s here,” Laken says it in a sweet, humble voice as she wraps her arms around Skyla. Laken has been nothing but a rock for her. Bree, too, but Bree and Drake have been a little wrapped up in the multiple business ventures they’re branching off into. There was a rip-roaring discussion between those two going on at the Landon house when I arrived, but my primary purpose was Skyla, and what Skyla wanted was to find the nearest exit and fast, so here we are.
“How are you two holding up?” Coop motions to a couple of chairs, and I nod.
“We’re doing the best we can.” I wrap my arm around Skyla as if I’m sending some subliminal message to Coop—look at us! We are together. And I am a piping hot piece of shit. “We’re there for each other. I couldn’t do this without her.” A part of me wants to hurl. Gage would be sickened by the way we’re there for each other. It’s no wonder Skyla is physically ill. She knows what we’re doing is damning.
“Did you get over that bad flu?” Coop examines Skyla with a renewed scrutiny, like he’s speaking in code.
“Not quite.”
Skyla has had the flu ever since Gage—since he disappeared. I think the thought of having Gage out of her life simply makes Skyla sick to her stomach. I know it does me.
She wrinkles her nose. “Did you ever give Ezrina those mushrooms to examine?” I know for a fact it was Coop’s idea to do so.
“Did.” Ezrina and Nev come and fill in our circle. She glares at Skyla a moment. Ezrina wears Chloe’s body like it were some designer suit, although given the fact Ezrina and Chloe have opposite sensibilities about fashion, hair, and makeup, you can hardly tell Ezrina’s face once belonged to Chloe Bishop. “However, we shall not discuss that at the moment. That is a personal matter for later.” She tears her gaze from Skyla. “Did Heathcliff inform you of the interlopers?”
“What interlopers?” Coop glances around until he lands on them. “Huh?” He takes in the rather pedestrian scene.
I lean in toward Ezrina and Nev. “What makes you so suspect of them?”
“They stiff you on a tip?” Skyla’s cheek glides up one side at a feeble attempt at humor. It’s strange. At night, Skyla sheds her smile as easy as she does her clothes. And while the sun is still up, she’s drugged with grief. Not that I think any of her heartache is an act. It’s just odd.
“They asked questions.” Nevermore shifts in closer. “Unfriendly questions.”
“Like?” Laken seems perturbed. You can tell she isn’t in the mood to turn this into a guessing game.
“Like have we seen anything out of the ordinary?” Nev nods as if we should read between the lines.
Laken smirks. “They do realize they’re on Paragon?”
Coop strains to get a better look at them. “I’m going to head to the restroom and snap a few candid shots.”
“Cooper.” Ezrina tries to stop him, but he’s already walking away, pretending to text, snapping up a storm.
“Don’t worry. He’s smart, Ezrina.” Laken twirls her engagement ring absentmindedly. “He won’t get caught.”
“I’m not worried about him getting
caught. I’m worried about the entire lot of us getting caught and carted away like cattle.”
“Don’t you see?” Nevermore leans in. “The Barricade has the planet in a fury over these mass ‘UFO’ sightings, strange lights appearing over large cities, these strange happenings regarding the release of the tunnel victims. Mark my words. Mass hysteria is brewing.”
“Are you sure there’s not mass hysteria brewing in here?” I ask. “I don’t mean to burst your paranoid bubble, but Paragon isn’t exactly on anyone’s radar. Unless…shit”—my mind zeros in on one horrific theory—“unless someone threw a dart at the island and said have at it.”
“Wesley,” Skyla and Laken say in unison.
Sometimes, a theory can materialize into an undeniable fact without so much as a swing of the pendulum. If those hardboiled humans sitting in the corner were appointed here by Wes, that pretty much takes them off your average tourist list. Wes wouldn’t just bring in anyone—he’d haul in the ball-cracking cavalry.
“He’s sheltering the DNA of every person in the Barricade.” Nev looks pissed. That look on his face in a nutshell is how I remember Pierce Kragger—Pierce being the original owner of the body Nev has been granted. Pierce was one serious son-of-a-bitch, and I mean that quite literally. In this case, the bitch is Arson Kragger, whom I’m sure is in on this little deal if there is one. “What’s left to do but expose the rest of us?”
“He’s right.” Laken looks to Skyla.
“We need to stop this madness before Wes lands us in government-issued holding pens.” Skyla takes in a long, ragged breath. “I think it’s time I start compartmentalizing my pain and get back to helping the Nephilim. There’s a faction meeting coming up. I’ve appointed Logan to act in my place.” She shakes her head as if she got it wrong. “Actually Dr. Booth. Would you pass it on? He’ll be Logan’s mouthpiece since they’d never allow Logan to hold the position as a Celestra traitor.” She looks to me. “A title I plan on having stripped as soon as I’m back in power, and I will be.”
Something in Skyla enlivens as if somehow she’s already compartmentalized her pain and shifted it straight to anger. Anger toward the Barricade is always productive. If there could be an acceptable outcome to her grief, that would be it. Kicking ass and taking names is a good lane to switch to—those were her words the very next day Gage disappeared, and now, it looks as if she’s ready to implement them.
Coop comes back, and he and Laken head out. He’s determined to start the research party.
Ezrina and Nev matriculate back to their bourgeoning customers.
“Looks like it’s just you and me.” I scoot in close and pick up her hands from across the table.
“I do love it that way.” She gives an anemic smile, her eyes wary with thinly veiled agony, and my heart breaks seeing her like this.
“I have a feeling we’ll get some answers soon.”
“You do?” She perks up. “Why? Did Marshall say something?”
“No, not at all. It’s just a feeling, I can’t explain it.” I put up a wall around my thoughts. Skyla is in so much misery—I doubt she can focus enough to read my mind. And truth be told, the real reason I can feel Gage coming back to us is because I’m ashamed to admit on a sick level I’ve enjoyed having Skyla all to myself. As much as I love Gage, I didn’t realize until these last few weeks that my body has craved hers so much more than I could have imagined. I’ve loved having her in my bed, naked in my arms, hearing her sweet whimpers as we make love. It’s been a warped dream come true—one I’m not sure I want to be roused from. And, understandably, I hate myself for it.
“I hope you’re right.” The bags under her eyes swell, and her cheeks glow florescent pink. “I can’t bear to think that was all we’ll ever see of him until eternity. It’s as if Demetri is holding both his body and soul hostage. I should never have trusted him with my heart’s treasure.” She bats her lashes, wet with tears. Her eyes steady over mine, serious as death. “I want you to know, Logan, that the things you’ve done for me, the way you’ve been here for me are all beyond the call of duty. I hope you don’t feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” Her chest expands with her next lungful.
“No, God, no. I feel like I owe you an apology. Skyla…” I close my eyes and bow my head a moment. I bear into her beautiful eyes lined with crimson tracks. “We can talk about it. It’s okay.”
Her mouth falls open. She cocks her head as if she’s unsure.
“Logan. You know me so well—or perhaps you’ve read my thoughts.” She pulls her fingers from mine. “I swear, my head is all over the place these days. Half the time I don’t know what I’m thinking. I mean, I’m not even sure yet. I want to talk about it, but I’m sorry. I’m just not ready. This is big. It’s life-changing. Once those words are spoken”—she closes her eyes as she goes rigid—“it will all become real. And, are you going to be okay with this? Am I?” She shakes her head. “This is so huge, Logan. Please don’t say anything. I’m going to need you every step of the way.” Her lips tremble as she gathers her purse and rises.
We head out into the dull day, the sun breaking out from the clouds just enough to make the rain-slicked sidewalks shine like a dime.
I take Skyla home and head over to White Horse. Long after the sun goes down I wait for her, and she comes.
“Logan Oliver.” She wraps her arms around me, her hands floating up my shirt. “I hope you don’t mind. I just couldn’t sleep. You’re the only one that can help me get through this. You’re the only thing I want and need.”
We fall into bed, into each other, her mouth over mine, my body heavy over hers. Skyla and I make easy love, we fuck hard, we outright drown in our passion.
I can’t believe how much I’ve grown to love her.
I can’t believe how much I’ve grown to hate myself.
4
The Ultimate Reception, the Ultimate Deception
SKYLA
Long ago, when we lived in Los Angeles, when my father was still alive—still happily married to my mother—there was just Mia and I. Our little family drew great pleasure in the simple things. We loved the ocean. The beaches in L.A. are a stark contrast to Paragon’s cold, dismal, pewter water—nothing but a storm thatch. Back home, the water was so blue, so glassy it matched the unblemished turquoise sky. I miss the sand and surf, our shoulders pinching from a fresh sunburn—my mother chasing me with a hat and sunscreen. I miss lying on my belly on the warm sand, rinsing my hair with salt water in hopes to tame my curls. I miss the endless supply of brighter days, the palm trees swaying in the nonexistent breeze, the vanilla sand, the tangerine sun, the sky hanging heavy with cobalt. I miss it all, but most of all I miss my family—Messenger family proper, Mom, Dad, Mia and me. We were a nice, neat square, an even number perfect for rides at Disneyland, which we often partook in. The right number to take a vacation without breaking the bank, having to rent a bus, or having an odd man out seated alone or with a stranger. We fit in my father’s cozy sedan just right—the same sedan he lost his life in. We were perfect in this imperfect jagged-edged world. We knew nothing of Paragon. We knew very little about who we really were. Sometimes in life, some things are better kept a mystery.
I examine myself sideways in the full-length mirror attached to my closet door and try to distinguish if I’m completely out of shape, if I’m simply distending my stomach for the sake of buying into my mother’s theory, or God forbid, my stomach is growing because there is the seedling of a teeny tiny Gage growing in there. I don’t have the balls to verify this.
I give a side-eye to the pregnancy test I swiped from my mother’s bathroom and stashed inside my desk. She has a stockpile of little white sticks just waiting for urine to rain down on them, so I doubt she’ll notice that one happened to wander away from the herd.
I want to take the test. I’m determined to take the test. All of my agony—my misery funnels in on that single desk drawer. I want that test in my hand so bad I can feel it, and with that though
t, my desk begins to rattle. The drawer glides open in a jarring manner.
“Holy shit,” I hiss. This is just like the incident with Gage’s phone. “Did I really just do that?” I head over, opening and shutting the tiny compartment as if testing its durability. It seems to be working like normal. I close it tight.
“Open,” I say it like some silly command, but it remains staunchly shut. Then I do the unthinkable. I imagine how bad I want that test, how I crave to memorize the wording on the box like a prayer, and the drawer slowly jerks open. The box jumps back and forth like a dying fish until it’s halfway out of its confinement.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, staring in disbelief. Something has happened. Something is happening. My eyes narrow in on the potentially life-altering box with a newfound fear. I don’t really want to take that test. I suddenly both resent and hate that tiny purple box, and the drawer slams shut with a crisp, loud slap.
I swallow hard. This is a sign. I should not take that test. I should not be anywhere near that test. Besides, I can’t be pregnant. Am I pregnant? Crap. There is nothing in me that wants to confirm this on a scientific level.
Sure, I am very, very late with my period, but I’ve researched the subject enough to know that heavy grieving can mess with your body in all kinds of crappy ways. Sleep deprivation can knock off your cycle, too. And God knows I haven’t been getting any shut-eye. There is nothing worse than swimming over the sheets and finding the spot next to you cold and barren. For a brief moment, every morning when I first wake up, I forget all of this heartache and reach over to greet Gage with a good morning embrace. But I come up empty-handed. My bed is now nothing but sterile and lonely as hell. It’s a cruel hoax that the morning plays on you. Although, for one delusionary moment, having Gage in my life is still a happy reality. I’ll take an illusion to a harsh reality any day.
The Serpentine Butterfly Page 9
