Vex

by Addison Moore

  I turn to bolt for the door, but it shuts and locks before I can get there.

  “Ms. Messenger,” Marshall’s voice booms.

  I jump when I see him.

  Marshall seethes with a psychotic brand of anger. He looks downright rabid.

  “I suppose there’s hell to pay,” I give a feeble smile.

  “Take off your robe,” he instructs with a forced sense of calm.

  And I do.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  All Over Me

  Dropping trou for Marshall wasn’t exactly how I planned on spending my first night up at the Pine Pole Lodge, not the last night or any night in between to be specific.

  I hold out my arms and twirl for him, slow and methodical making every effort to hypnotize him in the process. I want to enthrall him with Emily’s body art before he peels my skin off for riffling through his things.

  His warm fingers clasp onto my bare midriff and startle me into giving an audible gasp.

  “Be still love, I’m reading the script.”

  “What does it say?” It never occurred to me that Emily might actually be doing something coherent, well, other than the pictures. “Tell me,” I urge.

  Marshall starts in just above a whisper. He begins chanting something that has an eerie rhythm similar to the allegiance that Logan and the other Counts were spewing around me in the circle of unholy sacrifices the day I disappeared.

  “Louder, I can’t hear you,” I say.

  His fingers sink into my flesh, funneling that tuning fork feeling right through my bones. I drop my head back from the intensity of the sensual stream of energy.

  Marshall raises his voice an octave, it becomes clear he’s speaking a different tongue altogether.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s not of this earth. You wouldn’t understand the words—nor grasp their meaning,” he spins me around. “This is powerfully prophetic.”

  “It’s here, too.” I point at my navel and trail the strange script all the way up to my top. I pull down the left side of my bathing suit, generously exposing myself to him, so he can see, well, everything.

  Marshall returns my suit to its proper position and rests his hand over me with a wild budding grin.

  “What did it say?”

  “That, my love, was in perfect English. It was a side note from the portal through which the spasm of color on your flesh came to be.”

  I remove his hand and pull back my bikini just enough to peek inside.

  Chloe + Gage forever.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Figures. That’s probably what the rest of it says, too.”

  “That’s not what the rest of it says,” he takes a step back and kicks his suitcase. “She stole something, what was it?” His expression sharpens.

  “Rings,” I admit. “With the same stone as Chloe’s necklace. I want one. Give one to me.” I meet him right where he is, good and pissed.

  “Demanding are we? And no, you must never have it. For God’s sake, if it comes into your possession, don’t put the darn thing on.”

  “More Fems?” I’m hopeful. I never was Nat’s biggest fan. Hopefully she’ll share the wealth with Pierce.

  “That and something far more sinister.” He picks up the corset and gives a lazy smile in my direction.

  “No.” I swallow hard. It’s as inevitable as taking my next breath. I can already feel it.

  “Come, Skyla, you’ll be wearing more than you are now. “But first,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket and fidgets with it “we’re going to take some pictures.”

  I open my mouth to protest then reconsider.

  “Only if you send them to me,” I say. I want to examine the designs later at my own leisure, and most of them are in places I’ll never be able to see with my own eyes.

  “I’ll send the entire lot of them once I’m through, feel better?”

  “Yes.” I raise my arms and twist and turn, allowing Marshall to point and click his way around my body. It feels pedestrian, medical, nothing at all erotic or wrong about my math teacher taking pictures of me in a bikini and heels in his hotel room. That reminds me—I pluck off my shoes and glide belly first onto his bed, so he can take pictures of my soles as well.

  “Freeze,” he says it so serious I’m sure he’s about to pluck a spider from my hair, or swat a Fem off my back, instead he flexes and secures the corset around my chest. In one fell swoop, he unties my bikini top and flings it across the room.

  My hands fly up over my chest to ensure the corset doesn’t fall off, like he didn’t already see my left boob tonight—as though the right one wasn’t its twin, but still.

  Another flash goes off.

  “Hey!”

  “For posterity,” he says, tossing his cell onto the dresser and landing on his stomach next to me. “The corset is for tomorrow evening.”

  “I won’t be here. I have a date.” The thought of classifying what I do with Ellis as a date just feels wrong.

  “It’s for our party game.” His arm slips beneath mine, and he picks up my hand. “Who is this date with?”

  “Ellis. What party game? Is it the murder mystery?”

  “Precisely. You get to die. Does that excite you?”

  “No. Why me? Choose Chloe, for real.”

  “I’ve chosen you. The rest of the students get to play dress up from an old costume trunk provided by the facility, but you, my dear, are wearing an authentic piece from 1645. I made it myself,” his voice trails off.

  “You made this?” I finger the intricate lace pattern on the bodice.

  “The iron work.” His finger beads down the back.

  “Who did you make this for?”

  “Never mind.” His features darken. He looks lonely and far away, as though, not even my touch can bring him back to this distant future.

  “She’s dead.” I doubt death stops Marshall from hotly pursuing his victims.

  “I’ve seen her since if that’s what you’re eluding to.”

  “She didn’t choose you,” I say it as a solemn fact rather than a question.

  “She chose another. The black death greeted her with open arms. She died at Dover—threw herself off a cliff after they took her betrothed to the tower.”

  “That’s in England.”

  “London. There was a great war.”

  “The Fems were involved,” I say, knowingly.

  “Yes. They turned the tide, but never mind that.” He gives a casual blink. “You’re here now, and that’s not going to happen again.”

  “What do I have to do to help you win this war?” It feels like a loaded question—like all of the weight of the world hinges on whatever is about to come from his mouth.

  “You’ll have to advance to Ahava.”

  “Where is it, and how do I get there?”

  “In the ethereal plane. You’ll have to fight.”

  He strokes his fingers through my hair then rubs gently against the rim of the corset as though it were her flesh. It’s safe to say that whoever he made this corset for he loved her with an eternal passion.

  “Nonsense,” he corrects.

  I look down at our still conjoined hands.

  “I wanted her, and she rejected me. You weren’t the first to dismiss my advances.” He pairs his words with a subtle lascivious smile, clearly throwing out the offer once again.

  “When will you take me to see my mother?” I choose to ignore the proposal he’s laid out on the table—bed, altogether.

  His eyes gloss over my body, then drop to the floor.

  “You’ll see her in just a little while, Skyla.”

  “Why does this sound ominous?”

  “She has a seat on the justice alliance.”

  “Crap,” I whimper.

  “Oh, yes,” he gives a lethal nod. “I warned you to stay away from the pretty Oliver.”

  “Will you be there with me?”

  His hand slides down my back and rests at the base. It warms me and
makes me feel secure—yet another thing I have to feel ashamed of.

  “Logan will be with you. Isn’t he enough?” Marshall enjoys all of the treachery of the moment.

  “I never want to be with him.” I try and stave off thoughts of the light drive we have planned to see my father.

  Marshall pats the back of my thigh. “If I were you, I’d seriously reconsider traveling with him in any dimension.” There’s a satisfied gleam in his eye. There’s not enough white noise in the world to keep Marshall out of my thoughts. “Think twice before he lures you anywhere.”

  “What do you mean lure?” I hardly think he would harm me with my father present.

  “I mean, there will come a time when he will lure you somewhere and you may not be able to get back.”

  It will probably be an accident.

  “Or not.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Big Chill

  After breakfast I ditch the noisy cafeteria and steal a moment alone out on the overlook.

  The crisp mountain air leaves me dizzy as I gaze out at the beauty of the snow-covered peaks. The harsh lines of rock appear and disappear with a scant number of trees ebbing their way beyond the timberline. I wonder what the world would feel like up there on the barren landscape that lies just beneath a bevy of fat clouds. I wonder if I would feel safe, far from Marshall and his war, away from Logan and the danger he brings with him like a knife sharpened blade.

  A swirl of dark feathers spirals up above, and I flag down Nevermore until he lands on the railing of the balcony.

  “Hello, sweet friend,” my words drip with sadness. I’ve been having a serious transference issue regarding him and Logan—me and Ezrina ever since he told me all about his unhappily ever after.

  Why so morose? He asks, picking up on my demeanor.

  “Just everything,” I don’t really feel like going into the fact I couldn’t take a shower because I didn’t dare wash off Emily’s hieroglyphics so soon or the fact I want to push Chloe off the nearest cliff but can’t. “Hey,” an idea comes to me, “how about I arrange a meeting between you and Ezrina?” I jump on my toes with excitement.

  It’s strictly forbidden.

  “Well, what if it were an accident? What if I needed you and you just happened to bump into her?” God—how would I feel if Logan saw me after I was completely deformed by the Counts? I’d be devastated, although if he could get over my misshapen face and, of course, if I could get over the fact he was a bird, I think we’d still have those strong feelings for one another.

  What the hell am I saying? And with Logan?

  A pair of arms wrap themselves around me tight. Gage pulls a kiss onto my lips from behind. He rests his chin on my head and sags into me.

  Nevermore darts into the branches of a nearby tree. Probably trying to get away from my insanity.

  “I love you,” I breathe out the words as I clasp onto the back of his neck. Every day should start with me saying I love you to Gage.

  A thick sadness emanates off him. I try to read his thoughts, but he’s purposely blocking them like only he knows how. I wonder if it was growing up with Logan that helped him master the art—or his relationship with me? But either way, he’s impenetrable.

  I turn around and gasp at his bright red eyes. He pulls a bleak smile.

  “What happened?” God—maybe his dog died. My hand rises to my chest at the thought.

  He looks over at me solemn, bereft. “Heard you were hanging out with Dudley last night.”

  Nat. Of course, she blabbed the whole thing as soon as she got back to the room, what else did I expect?

  “He told me to meet him there at ten.” A flood of heat rises to my cheeks. “I’m sure Chloe made up all sorts of stupid details.” Shit. What if Nat told her about the corset?

  “Chloe didn’t mention anything.” His lips press together as he examines me. “What happened?”

  “We talked about the faction war.” Something in me lights up with fear.

  “You have a good time?” You could drive a nail in the ground with his hard stare.

  “No.” Why does it feel like we’re suddenly fighting? Like I need to defend myself to Gage of all people. “Marshall’s nothing to me. He’s an irritant like Chloe.”

  He gives a slow, disbelieving blink.

  “Why are you acting like this? You know he freaks me out.”

  “Did he touch you?”

  “No.” I doubt Gage is talking about Marshall brushing up against my hand. “Why are you asking me this? What’s going on?”

  He produces his phone, presses into it before holding it out for me to see.

  “You tell me.”

  I take in a breath.

  It’s a picture of me on Marshall’s bed. I’ve got my thumb on my lower lip in a seductive manner, and my thigh is turned up on the side. It looks as though I’m naked save for the loosely threaded corset.

  “Oh, crap,” it comes out below a whisper.

  “Yeah, I said the same thing.” His hardened eyes lock onto mine before he speeds off into the swarming sea of bodies.

  ***

  I stay in the room all day long—forgo snow play, sledding, and promises of a snowball fight of apocalyptic proportions. Instead, I wallow in misery, too ashamed to face Gage. I study the pictures on my body that are already beginning to warp and fade. I don’t dare take a shower. Instead, I read the images over and over, try to memorize them as if they were the words to a tragically beautiful poem.

  The vine is the constant. It wraps itself around my body, never breaking, always interwoven throughout all the drama of the circular rainbows—the shower of butterflies. Another vine, this one comprised of thorns, is intertwined around my neck, it tries to choke out the vine that spans my existence but a tiny branch grows up and sprouts two bright green shoots that hang over the crook of my ear. Then there’s the lion. He dots my skin at regular intervals, like the happy face of a sunflower, until you look closer, and it reveals itself to be a ferocious man-eater, instead. I can only gather that the vine is Gage, the thorn is Chloe, but we survive and renew ourselves despite her constant pestering, and the lion I already know is Logan. So beautiful to admire from a safe distance, but get too close, and he’ll eat you for breakfast. I don’t need Marshall to decipher that much for me. It’s the rest I long to know, the outrageous landscapes—Ahava perhaps? The questionable dark stain that spans my entire torso which, under careful scrutiny, dissolves into a series of microscopic pictures. The last things that puzzle me are the set of three discs with multicolored stones set in the center.

  I should have figured Marshall was up to no good when he offered to take these pictures. I had no idea there was a little bit of Mia in him. Although in her defense, she never did email both East and West High with that picture of me making out with him. It’s almost a mute point now because they all suspect far worse than that anyway.

  The girls come back in the room, bursting with an unnecessary level of jubilation. It doesn’t quite mesh with all of the languishing I’ve been participating in since my unfortunate meeting with Gage this morning.

  “What are you doing?” Brielle lands a large blue gift bag next to me. “This is from Dudley. He said you got first pick of the costume closet last night.” Her words take an upturn in volume, pointing out the obvious.

  “A gift from your lover? Open, please.” Chloe bites down on her lower lip.

  “Skyla’s a virgin.” Brielle unwraps a sucker from out of her pocket and sticks it in her mouth with vigor.

  “She’s got you fooled,” Chloe says, dumping the contents of the bag and holding up the corset. “Love it.” She holds up a matching leather skirt and the choker with a miniature spirit sword. She fingers it a moment, squinting into it before securing it onto my neck. “Hardly looks deadly,” she gives a quick wink.

  “Looks phallic,” Brielle leans in. Everything looks phallic to Brielle.

  Emily comes up from behind, and frowns at it. “It does look like a
tiny penis.”

  “I bet it’s a life size rendition of Dudley’s.” Chloe sways on her heels holding back a laugh.

  “I bet it’s a cast version of the real thing,” Nat comes in close to examine it. The ring she stole sits proudly on her middle finger. “Oh, wait, it just got smaller.”

  Nat and Chloe breaks out into cackles.

  The toilet flushes, and Michelle comes out of the bathroom looking haggard and worn.

  “What’s so funny?” She flashes the twin ring on her forefinger.

  “Skyla is filling us in on her night with Dudley.” Nat turns a shoulder up to her.

  “Just the nasty bits,” Chloe laughs.

  Michelle doesn’t even break a smile. She pins both Chloe and me with her discontent, brands us with her hatred, hot as an iron.

  Then a strange idea rouses in the back of my mind and I can’t help but think—the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Dressed to Kill

  The Pine Pole Hall is decked out in romantic twinkle lights, and doused in a dark rainbow of red and blue illuminations giving it that crime scene effect that I’m sure Marshall is after. Thank God it’s warm in here. I almost froze to death on the walk over. It’s all Marshall’s fault that I’m seriously clothing deficient. Why I go along with everything he says is beyond me. If I were captured by the Counts I’d probably be warm and toasty while they siphon an eternal blood supply from me. Once I get the feeling back in my limbs, I’m going to have to seriously weigh my options.

  Chloe is the most enthused to be here. Figures, that she’s overeager to participate in yet another murder, this time apparently mine.

  We each sign in and are given a piece of paper we’re to share with no one. We spend our time introducing ourselves as our characters, but really, I’m waiting to see Gage walk through the door with those forlorn eyes. Swim in those sad pools of blue as I try to explain away why I’m quite possibly the worst girlfriend ever.