Elysian (52 page)

“Love,” he says, crawling beside me and sitting up on his elbow. “May I offer the most chaste of kisses to commemorate this, the day of your birth?” His eyes glow like molten jasper, his skin like fiery bronze.

“Sure.” I lean up. “You lured me to your bed. Is this my gift?” I tease. Marshall looks like a marble statue fit for a king’s garden with the candlelight spraying over him.

“One of the many gifts I have planned for you.” He reaches over and touches my hair, and my body electrifies with pleasure. The relentless patina of grief settles over him. First Logan, then Gage, and now the plague of sorrow has ebbed its way over to Marshall. The impossible has finally happened, and we’re all swimming in a sea of heartache.

I hedge my way over to him. He’s so handsome, my heart breaks for him like this.

“I want to do something for you, Marshall,” I whisper. “Something special.”

His brows arch amused as hell by my less than chaste proposal.

“Do you have a birthday?” I ask.

“No”—he cuts me a quick look before settling my hair behind my shoulders—“I was created.”

“We should give you one. Halloween would be fitting.”

“Demon’s delight? No, thank you.” He bites over his bottom lip and lets it out slowly. My insides bite with an aggressive heat just thinking of the things he could do with those teeth.

My hand settles over his bare chest, and the beating of his heart resonates to my bones. Marshall is alive, and real, and his love for me is all that and more.

“Come love,” he whispers, calm and serene. “Let me kiss you.”

Marshall touches his lips to mine, soft and restrained.

The room gyrates. The bed opens up, and we fall on through. Marshall leashes me to himself with his limbs, and we appear quiet as a whisper on the rolling green hills of Ahava.

***

Paradise is not lost on me. The lavender skies, the giant nest of lighting that quivers and growls over my mother and the three men that rule the universal roost is resplendent. They sit on their invisible thrones, floating over a silver lake with the now, all too familiar, waterfalls behind them. A cave glows in the one in the middle, a molten shade of orange from the tornado of fire that lives there. The exact one I was brave enough to walk through all because Marshall gave me the strength I needed. He always gives me the strength that I need to survive.

My mother rises in all her extravagance. Her long, golden hair shines like glass.

“Sector Marshall, I see you’ve brought my daughter.”

Marshall tightens his arm around my waist before letting go.

“Candace Messenger,” I say, and she appears before me in a blink.

“Are you angry with me?” Her brows crease in the same manner in which I’ve seen mine flex when I’m pissed. It unnerves me that we look so much alike. “Don’t be a silly girl.” She pulls me in and wraps her long, slender arms around me. The soft scent of vanilla and gardenia permeates the air with her embrace. A soft vibration emanates from her and warms my blood—my
bones
to the core—I have never felt such a serene brand of love. “Happy birthday.” She pulls back and examines me. “Congratulations. You’re on the verge of becoming a woman.”

“Legally,” I correct.

“And, spiritually, you are almost there.” Her eyes sparkle like crushed diamonds.

“Did we win the war? Do I get the sword? Why did you let Logan die? Please spare Ezrina and Nev, they—”

She roars a peaceful, yet powerful, laugh, and the universe trembles in rhythm with her.

“So many questions.” She runs her finger down my cheek, inspecting me lovingly.

“Please.” I fall to my knees and hang my head. “Don’t take Marshall. It’s not his fault Chloe won’t give up the pendant. He wasn’t the one who gave it to her.” Great. I think I just threw Logan under the bus.

I lift my eyes slowly in the wake of her silence.

“Considered,” she says it with all the flair of Ezrina and her simplified terminology. “Skyla, rise.”

Marshall lends me a hand and helps me back to my feet.

“Do you know how much I love you?” A brief look of pain sweeps across her face. “Do you realize I have spent more time planning, anticipating all that you are and all that you’ll be, than I have any other being formed of nature?”

I take a breath and hold it because I know full well that my mother has a way of following something so brilliantly gorgeous up with a heart stopper.

“Logan couldn’t live forever, Skyla.”

And there it is.

“Yes, he can. You’re like God. Make it happen.”

The ground quakes with a seizure as a violent peal of thunder rips across the atmosphere.

“Skyla”—she whispers as the world around us resumes its quiet tempo—“I am not God, nor will I ever be.

“You gave us visions,” I cut the air with my words.

“I know what I gave,” she spits it out like darting knives.

“Skyla?” My father comes up from behind, and I lunge at him, losing myself in one long hug that I never want to end. “I couldn’t go without seeing my angel on her birthday.”

“Me either.” A familiar voice comes from behind.

“Logan!” I abandon my father and jump onto Logan’s waist, indulging in a kiss that tells death it can never win. It can never detour our love, our incessant need to be together. This is real for all eternity, Logan and me.

“Happy birthday,” he says as I slide down him like a pole. “Are you OK?” That sweet sadness seems to have subsided in him. Logan finally appears to be at peace, at rest.

“I’m better than OK, now. I think my mother was just getting ready to answer some tough questions. Weren’t you?” I say it stern. I’m not opposed to wrestling her until dawn if that’s what it takes. Jacob wrestled God and won. I can certainly take my mother.

“I was.” She gives a single nod. “I am going to tell you everything.”

The floor rocks gently beneath me. Ahava blinks in and out of existence like a dream. I glance at Marshall in horror and let out a cry of protest that startles the heavenly plane.

I know exactly what this means, and the only one who can truly save me from this disaster is Marshall.

“Help,” I whisper as Logan and I fall down the long winding inferno, straight to Tenebrous—straight to hell.  

The Tenebrous Woods lie in wait like the opened mouth of a lion, like a snake with its jaw unhinged waiting to swallow us whole. The towering evergreens are unnaturally bent and charred, their needles waft in and out of the metallic breeze like uncut hair.

“You OK?” Logan helps me to my feet and pulls me in.

“I’m fine.” I examine him for signs of trauma, for a clue of who he might be. “Which one are you?” I opt for the less enigmatic route.

“The one in paradise.” He gives an easy smile. His whole person beams with peace and joy. “I’ll always be the one that meets you here. But Skyla”— he buries his face in my hair and takes in a breath—“it’s still me out there in your world. I’m not finished.”

I make a face. I think we both know if my mother has anything to say about it, he is very much finished.

Ingram comes up like the incandescent bruise he is and leads us to a knotty alder where Wes, my Gage lookalike, waits for me with his familiar dark hair, that perfect frame. He looks angry, hurt, slightly disheveled. His large eyes spark like jade on fire.

He comes upon me as Logan, my eternal Elysian, waits off to the side.

“Are you planning to kick the shit out me?” he asks kind enough, his lips twitch to the side as if he’s resolved to the fact.

“No. Why? Should I?” I’m a bit alarmed, but seeing that my own life is in a state of disarray, I’m not too surprised to learn that a Count of his stature is no better off.

“No.” He presses out a dimpled grin, and it melts off his face as quick as it came. “Someone beat you to it.” He cuts a hard look to Logan.

Wesley gets right down to business and gnaws on my neck until he bleeds it raw. Logan catches my eye, looking every bit pissed, and yet my entire being is happy to see him. I wait until Wesley takes in a couple of solid sips before I start in on a private conversation.

Wes? 

What?
He gruffs, not in the mood for small talk.

If I’m going to be a “guest” in the tunnels like this, can you do me a favor?

Wes ceases all movement and lingers over me with his lips, anticipating what I might say next.

I’m not the biggest fan of the tunnels,
I continue,
but would you make sure that each time I come down here, you take me?
If that wasn’t laden with unnecessary innuendo, I don’t know what is.

I can arrange that. Might be Laken, though
. He says that last part solemn, as if there were trouble in paradise. 

Oh, Laken is fine, too
.
Thank you.
I just thanked a Count for bleeding me dry and green-lighted his girlfriend in on the fun. If I hadn’t already sailed to the bottom, with Logan’s death, with Marshall’s impending doom, thanking Wes just proves I’m beneath the floor, pressed against a rock and a hard place.

Wesley’s mind drifts to a scene, a hotel room. It’s empty, and he’s howling for Laken. He envisions himself sealing his hands around a familiar looking boy’s neck—Cooper.

I think I just figured out what the trouble in paradise might be. Hearts are being broken all across the time continuum, the
universe
. Love is about as fickle as the truth is hard for a Count to hold onto. Something as simple as the truth can cost you everything. It makes you desperate, leads you to do things for answers you may not have otherwise considered.

I should know.

I’m always looking for the ever-elusive truth.

I wake up in Marshall’s arms back on Paragon without an opportunity to say goodbye to Logan.

It’s so dark, so cold. I want to tell Marshall to just let me die, but my lips seize shut. Marshall injects me with a needle filled with toxins, and my kidneys begin to grind, my organs spasm with shock as my Celestra blood starts in on the regeneration process. It hurts like hell but it hurts a lot less than losing Logan or Marshall forever.

I channel all my pain and think of Chloe.

Chloe Bishop must die.

She will.

This comforts me. 

***

It’s Gage’s eighteenth birthday. Everything in me swims to spend time with him today. But there’s no way in hell I’d ever let those Oliver boys show me up in the “bake a cake” department, so I wake up early, well, eleven, which is totally early for a Saturday and bake my ass off until about four. So far I have a chocolate cake with the bottom burned and the inside raw with pudding which is technically raw batter, one marble cake with extra crispy crust all the way around, and one strawberry cake that turned out just right—sort of.

I frost and sprinkle the strawberry cake until I’m about to pass out. I’m so freaking exhausted I literally see eggs and butter when I close my eyes. But in my heart, all I’ve thought about today is Gage and how well this chocolate frosting is going to taste off his lips, then I think of Logan, and my heart breaks.

After a quick change, and then about three more quick changes, I finally head over to the Olivers to deliver my not-so-perfect confection. I’m sure Emma will be less than impressed with my, “Hoppy Birfhday, Goge” cake. But, in my defense, it’s nearly impossible to have neat penmanship while handling a piping bag. I spelled it out in the exact color of his eyes—blue as the deepest end of the ocean.

The lights are all aglow in the Oliver home. Giselle’s expensive SUV is parked right behind her brother’s, but Logan’s truck is nowhere to be seen.

Hmm…

I trek on up and knock. Emma opens the door, and her smile fades as if she were expecting someone else.

“Hello, Skyla,” she says it a little harsher than necessary. She peers down at the lump of frosting I’m holding out like a peace offering and makes a face. “I’d love to give you a lesson on cake decorating one day.”

“Gee, thanks.” Only, I’m totally being sarcastic. Emma’s got her bitch-vibe going on, and too bad for her because I’m feeling a bit bitchy myself—one dead Logan and a damned Dudley will do that to a girl.

“Listen”—she shuts the door behind me, quiet as a whisper—“it’s no mystery that my son has serious feelings for you.” She cuts a secretive glance to the kitchen. “If there’s any way possible, I’d very much appreciate it if you could give him a special gift.” She nods as if I should know what this is.

Oh shit. Did Emma I-hate-your-face Oliver just ask me to sleep with her son?

“What’s that Emma?” Swear to God if she even implies it I’m going to be weirded out by her for the rest of our unnatural lives.

“The B word,” she whispers, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “You know, make it official. Do a good job.”

I suck in a breath.

Shit! Emma just ordered a
blowjob
for her son’s eighteenth fucking birthday.

My eyes widen the size of softballs, and I freeze solid like a sheet of glass.

“The B word?” I whimper.

“Break up with him,” she hisses.

Everything in me relaxes. Of course she meant break up with him.

“Oh,” I let out a little laugh. “I thought you meant the other B word.” I shake my head at how silly that would have been.

“What other B word?” Her penciled in brows spring up like fishhooks.

“Never mind. And don’t worry, I sort of already did break up with him.” I breeze past her and make my way into the kitchen where Ellis, Giselle, and the drop-dead gorgeous birthday boy are playing twenty-one. “I’d hold if I were you,” I say to Giselle, peering over at her cards.

“I want to hold”—Gage springs to his feet and wraps his arms around my waist—“
you
.” He dips a kiss into my neck, and I let out a ferocious groan.

“I made this for you.” I set the cake down, and it splits open right down the middle like a broken heart.

Great.

“I love it.” He dots my lips with a kiss. “It’s perfect—like you.”