Throne of Fire: Celestra Forever After 5

by Addison Moore

  “I’m not even going there with you,” I hiss. “You knew exactly who you were getting into bed with all those years ago. And you knew why! You wanted power through Demetri—through Gage. The scary thing is—you believe you will achieve it. Face it, Emma, you’re nothing but a celestial gold digger at heart.”

  Her mouth gapes in horror. Her hand grips her chest as she takes a step back.

  “That’s right.” I point a finger at her, hard. “You’ve been outted. You wanted Gage to rise in Demetri’s wicked light and become some great ruler to a people he wanted nothing to do with. Your dream is to become an instrument of benevolent importance, and you’ve sacrificed your son to do it.”

  Emma reaches forward in one swift motion and pulls me in by the sweater, her face gnarled, her lips tight in a knot. “You listen to me, little girl.” Her lips quiver with fury as her fingers embed themselves into my flesh. “I gave him life!” She roars those final words.

  I push her hand off me. “And you set him up for death.”

  “You should be kissing my shoes. I gifted you a treasure. If it weren’t for me, you would not have those precious boys to hold at night.”

  Demetri chuckles as if it were comical. And it would be if it wasn’t so darn heartbreaking. “Ladies, enough. My son would never want to see this.”

  My chest pumps with a dry laugh. “And thanks to you, he won’t.”

  “Skyla”—Marshall wraps an arm around my shoulder and pulls me back an inch—“perhaps we should check on the little goats.”

  “The boys are fine.” I shake myself free, my angry gaze still locked over Emma’s. “I am thankful for Gage. I am more than thankful for my boys. I am not thankful for the fact you sacrificed your body to this demon just to obtain power. In truth, it frightens me, Emma. It assures me that I do not really know you. Are you for the Factions? Tell me right now, point-blank because your son certainly was.”

  Emma’s lips part, and her attention is momentarily stolen by someone behind me. I turn to find Dr. Oliver standing with a smile and two heaping plates filled with turkey, stuffing, and all the trimmings.

  “Shall we find a seat?” He beckons his wife, and she sniffs the air between us as she pulls him off into the crowd.

  “Ms. Messenger”—Marshall barks as if he had the right—“I implore you not to entangle yourself with matters you know not of. What happened between Emma and the Fem by your side has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

  “The hell it doesn’t.” I turn to Demetri as his chest bounces with a laugh. “Bring my husband back. Do not, I repeat, do not pull Emma farther into your web. She’s as delusional as you are sick. Look, she’s the mother of my husband—my children’s grandmother. She’s practically sacred.” I don’t believe the words as they stream from my lips, but I’m so sick of my own family members going de facto on me tonight. First, Melissa and her newfound adoration for the Barricade. Yes, she has always been a member, but her sudden urge to social climb in the nefarious organization makes me want to bite my own tongue off in agony. And I can’t have Emma lying down for the evil master once again. Believe you me, once was enough. Her power trip must come to an obnoxious end.

  Demetri looks to Marshall and tips his head back. “Is she sacred?”

  “Hardly so. Nothing but a used sow after you had her, but I’ll never repeat it, and I shall deny it if word gets about.” He glowers at me. Used sow. Now there’s a real zinger I’d love to fling her way but won’t.

  “Either way, she must be stopped,” I plead with Demetri. “Gage Oliver will come down from the height of heaven and blot you out of existence himself if you fool with his mother—even by way of entertaining her irrational thinking. Gage has his limits, and I’m afraid Emma is a hard line he won’t let anyone cross. Believe me, I know. Her judgment is impaired. Do not entertain that level of insanity.” Who knows what a steaming pile of evil crap Emma is about to step in? My God, I have to save her from herself. Melissa too for that matter.

  Demetri frowns as he inspects her from across the room. She and Dr. O are holding the boys in their elf attire, each with a Christmas chicken firmly planted on their heads.

  “I’m sure my son would wonder about your own judgment,” Demetri muses as he frowns their way.

  Marshall blows out a breath. “I’m sure Master Gage would question your own wherewithal as well, my love.” Master Gage? It’s a rarity to get Marshall to say anything kind about my beloved, and that’s all the gift I need from him tonight. “There’s a bit of gender fraud on display this evening with those dresses, those hats. I’m afraid you might have entertained your own bout of irrational thinking.”

  I shudder at the thought because Marshall, of course, is right. “Never mind that fashion-based mental lapse. Let’s talk about that stone my mother gifted Gage at the christening last year.” I take a moment to glower at Demetri. “He was gifted seven—as in seven years or seven decades, and thanks to you we will never find out which it was.”

  Demetri blinks once, the quick click of a ventriloquist dummy. How apropos. His face bleaches out as that perennial tan of his recedes and the pale glow of death takes over.

  “What’s this?” I step in close with glee. “Why, Sector Marshall, I think I’ve caught the pantry rat off guard. That’s right. I have a celestial ace up my Caelestis sleeve. If my mother—fate incarnate, rolls a seven, you can bet your bottom demonic dollar that she is going to get it. And neither life, nor death, nor Sectors or Fems can do a single thing about it.”

  “Can’t do a thing about what?” Mom sings. Tad and Mom bop into our circle, each with a chicken hat jutting on their heads, my mother bearing a plate of cookie crumbs.

  Demetri presses his hands together and bows his head a moment as if he were in ardent worship of her.

  Marshall presses against my shoulder. Here it comes, Skyla. This one is for you. I can feel it.

  “We were discussing the unfortunate state of my home.” Demetri’s wicked features look instantly unassuming and pathetic.

  Mom tosses a hand in the air and baptizes us with sugar cookie dust. “I knew it would get to you. Just the thought of having a murder take place in your living room is really starting to eat you alive.”

  It should. Considering he’s the murderer.

  Demetri shoots me a look of venom, and my blood runs ice cold.

  “I have a brilliant idea.” Mom sets the empty tray behind her before wrapping an arm around the serpent in our midst. As if the poor dolt needed shelter from the murderous storm. He might. I am looking to murder a Fem, and he does fit the demonic bill. “Why don’t you renovate?”

  “Renovate? Wherever will I live in the meantime, Lizbeth?” He gives a quick wink my way, and that conversation we had on the porch flashes through my mind. I believe I said heck, you can live here if you bring Gage with you or something of the sort.

  “Right here.” My mother stomps her foot and crashes her red stiletto right over Tad’s toes in the process.

  “Cheese and rice, Lizbeth!” Tad howls and hops as if she lopped his entire leg off. “And she’s right!” Tad barks in Demetri’s face so loud I’m rooting for a fistfight. “After all you’ve done for this family, I wouldn’t hear of you taking up residence in some seedy motel.”

  I glance to Marshall. Seedy motel? Clearly Tad is not apprised of the fact Demetri is rolling in counterfeit billions.

  Tad’s chest broadens like a baboon’s. “You’ll live right here under this roof, Demeet. You’re one of us now. You always have been.”

  My mouth falls open, and just as I’m about to protest at top volume, Arson and Emerson Kragger appear like a pair of ghastly apparitions.

  “Yule tide greetings,” Arson warbles. Arson is at least seven feet tall, his hair has gone white, his skin mimics the pale theme, and those eyes of his are not far off either. And in stark contrast to his ghost-like appearance is Emerson with her striking beauty. Jet-black hair, piercing ice blue eyes—even if they are ringed in a lethal amou
nt of Goth-inspired kohl. Her skin too is chalky, but in Emerson’s defense, she’s been dead for years. She’s one of my mother’s reanimated science projects. I’m not sure what sort of Treble Lock affords her the right to parade around the planet, but after all the dead were sent their way last fall, Emerson’s earthly stay was extended. I’m more than certain my mother has a nefarious purpose for this abnormal foray into the land of the living.

  Arson nods in Tad’s direction, and I’m half-worried for my poor simple stepfather. “I hear you hold a new coveted position. I hope you are enjoying your time at Raven’s Eye.”

  “Are you kidding?” Tad balks. “I’ve never felt so needed in my entire life. Every person on the planet is dependent on me to watch over the compound.” He gives his trousers a yank by the belt loop. “I’m the man with the plan, Lizbeth. Bet you never thought you’d see the day that Tad Landon is large and in charge.”

  Arson turns to me and sheds a glacial grin, blue lips and all. “I assisted in locating active employment for your stepfather. It’s my way of saying thank you for bringing my daughter home.” He strokes her hair as if she were his favorite pet, and Emerson looks as if she’s about to knife the entire island. Her lips are painted a bright plasma red, and if I didn’t know better, I’d guess she used her own blood to do it.

  “A simple thank you would have done it.” I glare at him because we all know sending poor Tad to Raven’s Eye was nothing more than a giant F you to the entire lot of us.

  A thought jolts me like a lightning bolt, and I straighten.

  Tad is in charge of something on Raven’s Eye! Perhaps he’s the key to freeing Kresley Fisher? And perhaps a whole lot more. Like getting Laken’s memory back? Either Arson understood the fact I’d need access to that haunted government experiment gone awry or he has a personal vendetta against Tad just like Demetri. I choose to believe the former.

  I look up at Arson and mouth a quiet thank you myself.

  “Hey,” Emerson gruffs loud enough for my ears only while Tad regales our small circle with a cute little quip about being caught with his pants down in the woods by an FBI agent. Emerson glares at me as if I just sawed her mother in two. “Just to be clear, I detest Chloe Bishop.”

  “I knew I liked you.” I give a sly wink. “That makes two of us.”

  “Yeah, well, she killed me, so I think it’s only fair—tit for tat.”

  A chill rides up my spine. My God, did my mother bring Emerson back with homicidal intentions in mind? Just the thought makes me feel a little bad for wrapping my fingers around her celestial neck. But, wow, did it ever feel good. Forget therapy. All I need is to partake in a little strangulation to ease the tension in my life.

  “She killed my first husband. Logan.” I nod. “And my father. And there’s an off chance she killed my last husband as well.” My, I sound like quite the matrimonial trollop. “But if you’re planning a slaughter—in the least, I sincerely hope you’re considering it—I can’t know about it. I entered into a covenant with the witch, and we both decried ever causing one another emotional pain. Of course, we’ve already failed miserably at it, but right now I have bigger fish to fry than going to trial for slitting Chloe’s throat. That is how you’d do it, right?” I suck in a quick breath, overcome with spontaneous glee. “A decapitation!” I sing a touch too loud, and all eyes in our little circle look to me.

  Arson frowns at my lack of holiday party decorum. “As I was saying, we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.” He tips his enormous white head at us, his clear orange eyes looming over mine a moment. “So many more gifts to come for your people this new year, Skyla.” A pale slit appears in lieu of a smile. “You might be surprised just yet by how fast life can be turned on its ear.” He takes off, and Emerson lingers, gliding her finger over her throat and giving the slightest hint of a nod.

  We share a secret smile as I turn back to find Marshall smoldering like a heated wire. Skyla, do not entertain the little beast. She is a distraction. Never trust a distraction, Ms. Messenger.

  “What? Arson threatened me.” Besides, you and that obscene body of yours is the biggest distraction of all. I glare at him as if it were a true malfeasance.

  A thin smile curves up his lips. How astute of you to openly acknowledge the heft and girth of my most outstanding member.

  I threaten him with a look. Do not even go there.

  “Skyla!” Mom scoffs. “That man all but threw you a party. Arson is a sweet soul who wouldn’t threaten a fly.”

  “Aha!” Tad honks. “A party! That’s what we need. We need to throw one of your famous dinner parties as a means to say thank you. You’ll have to make your specialty, Lizbeth. Roast beast. Arson Kragger will never know what hit him.” Tad claps so loud and caustic at his own ridiculous idea, I almost want to press fast-forward on this evening and push him into the fire myself.

  “Oh, Tad. You know I don’t cook anymore.” She snorts sheepishly at Demetri. “Emily Morgan is a fantastic live-in chef,” she preens. And dear God—is she actually gloating as if she were some high on the hog royalty who had such a culinary expert trapped under her roof?

  “You don’t cook?” Demetri clicks his tongue. “Not even that lovely clam chowder we used to make together?”

  GAG! I bet they were making something far more disgusting together. Barf. Run and vomit! Run and vomit!

  Skyla. Marshall shakes his head, dismayed. You’re making wild gestures with your facial features.

  “That’s because I’m sickened by the disgusting culinary series of events.”

  Mom brushes me off. “Skyla’s not a fan of clam chowder. She can’t stand creatures that live under a rock.”

  “Not true. I am tolerating Demetri quite well tonight, thank you.”

  “Skyla!” both Mom and Tad shake with anger.

  Tad limps forward, wagging his finger just inches from my nose. “What that man has done for this family is myriad and plentiful. It’s tantamount to financial salvation over the last three years. He’s the personification of a true compatriot.”

  “Did you swallow a thesaurus by chance?”

  Mom tosses her hands in the air, exasperated, and the chicken on her head pops off and goes flying.

  Tad caws with laughter, and the entire scenario feels a bit nightmarish.

  “You know what would be perfect?” Tad slaps his thigh so hard, I’m certain he busted a kneecap. My God, this is the moment he chooses to invoke his angelic strength? Come to think of it, his natural survival instincts are probably kicking in big time. It was just a year ago today Demetri turned him into a barbequed roast. And the biggest, baddest Fem of them all did promise me a Christmas present just a few hours ago.

  “Do tell.” Marshall nods to my snickering stepfather. “By what standards would this night achieve perfection?”

  It’s a bit odd to see both Demetri and Marshall leaning in with anticipation of Tad’s next words.

  “If we could somehow kill this holly jolly holiday crap and play some real music. Like the chicken dance!”

  Marshall offers Demetri a deathly bored look. “Please, allow me.” He lifts a finger and, sure enough, the cheery sound of oom-pah-pah music filters through the speakers.

  “God in heaven,” I bleat as the room erupts with cheers, and human limbs suddenly mimic that of frightened poultry.

  “All right!”

  I turn to see Emily Morgan stomping a foot and clapping her hands to the rhythm.

  I can’t help but shake my head in disbelief. “For this she gets excited?” Who knows? Maybe it’s the Viden theme song.

  “Swing your partner round and round!” Tad dives into the crowd and snags Emma by the arm, and before she knows what hit her, she’s twisting her waist, and flapping her wings with the best of them. Okay, not really, she’s super pissed, and at any moment she’s going to slap Tad in the face for using an oom-pah-pah band as an excuse to fondle her breasts. I look over and find Mom and Demetri quacking up a storm, and I’m torn
on whether to pull out my phone and record the debauchery or run like hell across the street and split my head open on the nearest evergreen.

  “Skyla!” a voice booms from the hall with ferocious energy, and I hike up on my tiptoes to find Logan flagging me down.

  “My, my,” Marshall muses. “It looks as if The Pretty One cannot wait to squat and cluck with his beloved. Shall I steal the opportunity and claim you as my own fair-feathered friend? I’ve a move or two that might astound this docile crowd.”

  “Marshall, I promise I never want to hear you clucking like a chicken.”

  “My sweet love, you will be amazed by the scope and sequence of sounds I will invoke in you one day. Be prepared to twist, squat, cluck, and f—”

  I gasp up at him lest he finish his salty point. Marshall has a strict no expletive policy that we’ve all been forced to endure in his presence.

  “Favor me above all others.” He tips his head my way and pushes his way past Logan toward the living room.

  “Skyla,” Logan barks, pissed to high heaven that we’re not partaking in the tizzy taking place around us. I seriously doubt it, but hey, you never know. This has been one weird night. Logan snatches my hand, and I sail behind him as he yanks me through the hall and into the foyer—but it’s not the foyer where the action is—it’s the living room.

  Coop and Wes look as if they’ve been roughhousing with the best of them, and there’s a spacious circle around them that lets me know they’ve thrown enough punches to clue the crowd in on Kung Fu things to come. I spot Laken near the door holding a sleepy Tobie. Chloe and Bree stand in front of her looking as if they’re ready to break out into a cheer at the spontaneous sporting event. And they might. This entire evening is quickly taking on a B horror movie appeal.

  Dr. Booth strides up with a very upset older version of Laken by his side, Laken’s mother, Suzanne. She’s been working for Emma for years, and it brings me comfort to know once the boys are old enough to attend the daycare—now with its own preschool and kindergarten, too—they’ll be in good hands. And Dr. Booth was my psychiatrist once upon a haunted time. He’s tall, dark, and fuzzy, with thick-rimmed glasses, and he happens to sport the most serene expression in the world at all times—with the exception of this one.