“Whoa.” Gage attempts to step between us in an effort to break up the real party and I push him away.
“Chloe, deal with this.” My voice quivers with anger as each of my muscles bundles into its own knot.
“Your wish is my command.” Chloe pulls Gage back a few steps, and Laken and Coop surround the two of them as if a war were about to break out. Ellis and Giselle fill in their circle, and Gage looks resigned to watching me from afar.
“Look”—Logan pinches his eyes shut a moment—“I don’t want to pick a fight with you.”
“You don’t have to pick one. We’re in it. And I’m not relenting. Gone is the pussy of a girl who would bow to your greatness. I’m not looking for an earthly god to worship anymore. Certainly, I’m not swimming to the Oliver end of the pool to do so. You”—I stab my finger in his chest—“are a walking, talking megalomaniac who is only out for himself. You let Gage deconstruct without consulting me, and you expected fully to keep yet another secret from me without regard to the fact I’ve threatened you within an inch of your dead life from doing so!” I rage the words so loud and proud into his face my throat rubs raw.
Logan towers over me, backing me into the refreshment table, hovering over me with those amber eyes filled with a mixture of rage and hurt. “Collect yourself, Skyla,” he grits the words from his teeth, and I’m almost amused.
“Did you just tell me to collect myself?” A laugh gets caught in my throat. To think I once believed Logan was fully on my side, and all this time I was just something fully on the side for him.
“Yes,” he whispers it pained. “Deep down, you know both Gage and I love you. We love you deeply, more than we could have imagined love for any woman, any human being. You taught us to love, Skyla.”
“And did I teach you to lie? Did I teach you deception? What other things are you going to heap on me because of that four-letter word?” A small crowd amasses around us, and I really don’t care. I hope they settle in and enjoy the show because this feels good. It feels like much-needed medicine going down, healing me right to my weary bones.
“Let us speak to you!” His voice vibrates over the music. Logan’s frustration with me is so thick you can sink your teeth into it. It tastes like desperation. And in a sick way, I find it satisfyingly delicious.
“I don’t give a shit what you have to say.”
A small gasp circles the crowd.
Logan’s eyes round out with fury. “Well, maybe you should give a shit. Maybe that’s the problem here. Maybe the real problem is the fact you’re not willing to listen!” He swipes the refreshment table clean of all its contents, sending a piñata’s worth of red Solo cups flying through the air, and a group of girls howl as if the party were really getting started. It is. “Maybe he’s not the problem, Skyla,” Logan seethes over at me as his chest pumps with rage. “Maybe it’s you.”
I straighten for a moment, staring out at the stubbornly blank faces in the crowd, trying to digest the idea of me being the problem. Logan and I have grown so close over the years it’s almost like arguing with a brother. You just look past all the bullshit and know that forgiveness is inevitable. Or at least it used to be. The fair-haired Oliver has really managed to piss me off this time.
I look up and meet with those root beer-colored eyes, and in one pornographic microsecond, I can feel him in me, his naked body raking over mine, back in that bed we shared in Rome.
“Remember when I cut you?” My words come out almost inaudible as the music switches to some skull thumping techno beat you can feel deep in your chest. Once long ago, I sliced Logan Oliver’s face open wide with a broken bottle. It was done in a fit of rage much like this one, and for a long time afterward I regretted it—but if there were a silver lining, it would be the fact I managed to gift the side of his face with the world’s most endearing dimple. Every time he smiles I’m reminded of that day, that moment.
“Yes, Skyla, I do remember.” His voice is cool and even, meeting me right where I am. Logan and I had worn each other out like children.
“The night of the christening, both Gage and you cut me.” My hand covers my chest. “I feel it here, every moment of every day.”
Before Logan can put together a rebuttal, some useless apology, Ethan gets in my face, and I’m startled to see him.
“Dude, you need to talk to Emily. She’s about to blow. She’s been looking for you for like an hour.”
“Not now,” Logan thunders, shoving Ethan out of our midst as effortlessly as tossing a paper plane across the room.
Chloe pops up and latches onto me with an awkward side hug. “Skyla? There seems to be a problem.”
A light winks from my hand, and I look down to find that ring she gifted me going off again like some Halloween fun toy. Only it’s not a Halloween fun toy. It’s about as far away from that as you can get.
“What’s this?” Logan pulls my hand close, and I’m quick to retract it.
Chloe leans in. “Come now, the fun is about to begin.” She threads us through the dense crowd with the enthusiasm only danger can bring. “Emily is about to volcano shit a prophecy out of her ass, and she demands the two of us are present together. Isn’t that exciting?”
An arm pulls me away from Chloe, and I turn to find Gage as he flexes his fingers around my hand.
“You’re not going anywhere with her.” His tone is gruff and his body language coarse as he stops us cold in the great room. Something about his obnoxious level of insistence makes that secret spot between my thighs quiver for him. Damn him and his sudden need to pull rank. And damn me and my sudden need to be dominated.
“Ooh,” Chloe moans, stroking her torso over his. It’s clear Alpha Gage has her just as worked up as he does me. “Demanding, commanding. I bet you’d like to dole out a spanking right about now, wouldn’t you, Oliver? Something hard and fast that leaves a bright red impression right over Messenger’s shiny white—”
“As for you”—Emily comes from out of nowhere and grips my shoulders as if she were holding onto the handrail of a rollercoaster—“there shall be a time of great sorrow. A grief so piercing, a deception so wide—”
“That’s old news, Em. Tell me something I don’t already know or else you’re just wasting both our time.” I fling her off my body without so much of a flick of the arm, and she flies into the wall with a thud.
Emily’s entire body jolts as if I had electrocuted her, and for a moment I’m horrified that I might have landed her on exposed wiring. God knows the remodeling around here never really ends. That oversized chandelier newly installed overhead gives this room more of a ballroom appeal. It’s not just dripping with your average clear crystals, but sprinkled throughout are smoky tones of blues and gray. It’s an expensive sight to behold as it sparkles even in this dull light. Ellis’ mother’s redecorating prowess knows no financial bounds. And crushed gold flakes in your new flooring, Olivia? Really? It’s as if the Harrisons have nothing better to do with their wealth than embed it in the mausoleum they’ll spend the rest of their lives crafting and redrafting. I bet Olivia thinks she’s under some curse if she ever stops building, and soon there will be an entire slew of doors that lead to nowhere—a metaphor representative of my life if ever there was one.
“Skyla.” Emily groans as if she’s about to be sick. Her hand stretches in my direction as she staggers over zombie-like and sedated. Another hard groan comes from her, and her eyes ignite a brilliant shock of red. Her hair stands on end, her face has grown increasingly pale, and those audible groans assure the blooming throngs around us of vomitus things to come.
The crowd gasps. A few girls let out a wild cry of terror. For as many angelic half breeds that might be running around this island, there are more than that many natural humans who will be forever haunted by Emily’s little Rocky Horror Picture Show routine.
I glance around as if searching for help, for an escape route in the event things get wild. Oh hell, they’re far past wild.
Emily
bucks and lets out the roar of a lioness that rattles the chandelier up above. The rest of the light fixtures around the room pop one by one, and the speakers let out a high-pitched squeak.
“Hey!” Ellis barks as he barrels forward, good and pissed. This is Ellis’ hoedown, and nobody in their right mind messes with one of his epic end-of-the-year parties. However, it’s becoming evident Em here isn’t at all in her right mind.
Emily jumps in Ellis’ face and lets out a scream that sounds like a thousand swords striking up against one another. Then as quick as a flash, Em hops up on his shoulders, and in a bizarre gymnast-inspired move, she leaps to the chandelier overhead as if it were a waiting trapeze. Olivia’s prized antique she had imported from the Mother Country, that survived wars and rumors of wars and an entire era of times gone by, sways back and forth while Emily Morgan does her best Tarzan impersonation for all to see. That dark heavily coiled mass of hair she wears thick like a carpet blows back as she howls and screams in such distress you would think Demetri himself had just peeled off her skin and dipped her in lemon juice.
The room lights up with cell phones all pointed and poised to record every lunatic-inspired moment of Emily’s performance piece. But Em is undeterred. She rattles the chandelier as if she were shaking it, strangling it, and soon enough, jewels rain down over the crowd like falling stars.
“Shit.” Logan hops up on the sofa table and tries his best to catch her feet as she swings on by, but he only manages to clip her and sends Em into a wild spin instead.
“Ellis!” Gage barks. “Get a ladder!”
“Dude.” Ellis’ mouth hangs open. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off Emily and her violent spinning top routine. “This is like the effin’ circus or some shit. Who the hell taught her these moves?”
“This isn’t choreographed, Ellis.” Seriously? I’m fearing for Emily’s cranium and he’s amazed by her acrobatics. It is damn impressive, though, if I do say so myself. “We have to stop her before she tears the house apart.” And if a single gold flake happens to get chipped from the floor, I’m pocketing the sucker and setting it aside for the boys’ college fund.
Laken gives my arm a tug. “Skyla, what the hell is happening?”
“Emily was just about to give me a prophecy, and as usual things went to shit. She typically whips it out on paper. But the performance piece is a refreshing change of pace.” I’m only half-kidding.
The chandelier gyrates heavily from side to side. The crowd breaks out into a collective scream and overall chaos as the room bleeds dry of people. Emily yanks and tugs, flexing her feet to the ceiling as she hoists her body in that direction as if readying for a dramatic dismount.
A strangulating sound evicts from her throat. Dear God, if I didn’t know better, I’d think Emily were engaging in some primitive form of yodeling—reckless and terrible as it might be.
“Shit!” Ellis grips his hair at the temples. “She’s coming down!”
A horrible snapping sound comes from the ceiling as a fissure blooms overhead in a large jagged line. An entire series of awful cracks emerge on the ceiling, all stemming from the epicenter, as they race to the periphery of the room.
Emily goes silent for five solid seconds before screaming at the top of her lungs, and both she and the chandelier come crashing down in slow motion. The sound of glass exploding fills the room, crushing our eardrums with the detonation. Emily lies silent while buried under the rubble, her entire body glistening as the crystal teardrops cover her body like a glass canopy.
In this moment of utter tragedy, there is an underlying beauty about it. Emily is the sleeping princess clothed in candescent glory.
Emily’s eyes spring open wide before a single soul can get to her. Her body snaps and bucks. She jumps to her feet, sending those crystal teardrops shooting for miles.
“Shit,” Laken whispers as she pulls me back a few feet.
A strange humming sound comes from Em as her head vibrates.
Laken leans in. “I’m starting to believe she’s malfunctioning. Should we have the boys tackle her from behind?”
“No. This is big.” As much as I’ve grown to detest Emily’s visions, whatever is bubbling out of her seems critical.
Emily snatches up the bronze statue of the walking man in the corner and lifts it over her head with superhuman strength. I’ve never thought too much about the Videns’ powers, but it’s becoming clear as the crystal she destroyed that strength is one of them. I don’t see why not. Strength and speed are commonalities of the other five Factions as well.
Em tips her head back and starts in on a wail that vaguely resembles a sad, sad song. She wields the statue over her head from side to side, causing the crowd to sway along with her while erupting in screams of terror. Emily takes that bronze statue and crashes it into a glass-covered hutch filled with tiny little crystal sculptures that I can only guess Ellis’ poor mother picked up on one of her many travels.
“Holy shit!” Ellis heads over in a rage just as Em swings that weighted statue his way and he ducks, missing a decapitation by a millisecond.
Emily’s voice carries on with its odd swansong at top volume as she hoists her bronze companion right out the front door, and the mob of stragglers we’ve become follows along.
“She’s lost her mind,” Laken huffs as we push our way to the front of the crowd to keep an eye on our possessed little friend.
“She’s in a Godly state of mind,” Chloe corrects, huffing and puffing right along with us.
Emily swings the magnificent sculpture by its feet in a dangerous circle, quickening her pace until she’s nothing but a blur, and a couple runs out from the bushes behind her, adjusting their clothes—the girl screaming herself senseless. But it’s the girl’s familiar frame, her familiar face I recognize as my own.
“Mia?” I say mostly to myself as I gasp at the fact my baby sis just strutted her slutty stuff in front of every single onlooker planted on the Harrisons’ driveway. I struggle to make out the boy she was with, but he’s long gone, dissolved efficiently by Paragon’s signature fog. I’ll deal with her later. Him, too. The fog may not give him up, but someone will, and when I find out who he is, I’ll make sure he gives up the ghost. He’s a dead man walking. Of course, deep down, I know it’s Rev, and secretly I look forward to administering the beating.
Gage takes a few staggering steps forward before thinking better of it and turns to the crowd. “Get the hell out!” he roars. “That thing’s about to launch like a missile!” He stops to take in the unmoved crowd. “I said now!”
Bodies scramble in a fury like ants, but there are several of us that act as if our feet had taken root. I can’t take my eyes off the whirling, twirling tornado Emily Morgan has become. Laken is right. She’s lost her mind. And I’m terrified that Chloe might be right, too. That this barbaric display might just be attributed to some Godly message—one that directly affects me.
Marshall walks up from across the street, measured and calm, completely his unmoved self, and takes his place by my side. “It looks to me Mr. Harrison has spiked the punch with bath salts. I’d steer clear of the refreshment table if I were you.”
“That’s Emily. She has a vision for me.” The words swim from my lips numbly.
And just like that, Em’s twister of fun gravitates toward the center of the driveway. The sky up above quivers with the light of noonday as a crack of thunder so loud roars over the island it starts a whole new choir of screams from the people who were once Ellis’ party guests. Emily comes to a staggering finish, the statue resting at her side with the walking man seated on his bronze head.
“And then they will make a request unto the Lord!” Her voice booms in a deep, unnatural manner. Gone is any trace of femininity, and in its place the sound of a thousand rushing rivers. “They shall beg for peace—beg to have their enemy broken—for their enemy to relent. They will say take my life in exchange for the one you seek, but I will remind them of the covenant they had made with me,
and they shall be forced to drink the bitter cup of their father.”
“That must be Gage,” I whisper.
Lightning blinks in the western sky, flickering manically as if God Himself were playing with the switch. Emily screams, low at first then rising to the crescendo of a horrific tiger with its tail ablaze. She hoists up that bronzed statue once again, and the crowd gasps. Lightning strobes up above like a police siren, like a warning.
Emily Morgan takes that statue and hurls it at one of those prized lions sitting peacefully by the fountain. My heart aches as the lion’s head explodes, sending pieces of marble flying like shrapnel. Then one after another, with each scream far more violent than the last, she goes on a hacking spree, tearing each helpless lion’s head right off its menacing body.
“SHIT!” Ellis howls while doing his best to yank out his hair. “You are going to fucking pay for this, Morgan!” Every vein in his head bounces. For as long as I’ve known Ellis, he has been twice as calm and mellow as Marshall, and here he looks as if his head is about to pop right off in keeping with the theme.
In a fit of shouts and fury, Emily pitches the bronzed statue high into the sky. It launches toward the heavens like a cannon and sends the remainder of us ducking for cover. Marshall pulls me behind a Range Rover sitting at the base of the driveway, but it’s Gage and Logan who all but throw themselves over my body. Then with a heavy thud, not unlike an earthquake, it’s over and we emerge with the rest of the curious onlookers to find a smoking hole in the Harrisons’ roof.
Emily falls face-first into the pool of shimmering water at the base of the fountain she singlehandedly destroyed. Twelve headless lions and one seemingly dead as a doornail Emily Morgan.
“And there she goes,” Logan says before bolting in her direction.
Logan and Gage pluck Emily out as a siren saws its music through this unsettled night, making its way over. Emily sits up on her own, looking mildly dazed but thankfully alive.
Laken pulls me into a quick embrace. “I’m so glad it’s finally over.” Her mouth touches over my ear. “Don’t you dare overanalyze any of that psychotic crap.” She pulls back and forces a smile, patting my arms as if she just offered a pep talk. In a way, she has, but it’s altogether too late.
Crown of Ashes Page 15
