chapter 5
A Pearl in the Night
Laken
Wes walks me back to Austen House under a landscape of clever winking stars. I complained of feeling dizzy, and he chalked it up to fatigue since it’s well past one in the morning.
I watch from the large bay window in the common room as Wes makes the slow trek back up hill. The shadows swallow him whole as he plods in the direction of Henderson Hall. Wes dissolves in the night as if he never existed. That’s how this nightmare feels—the Wesley I grew up with, the one I loved with every cell in my body has been swallowed by the dark shadows, dissolved completely.
The fireplace dims as my dorm sisters stream their way upstairs.
Outside, a glimmer of light catches my attention from the wall of necrotic evergreens that flatten out over the horizon. I lean into the frozen glass to inspect it.
A breath gets caught in my throat.
Holy shit—I recognize that tall, lanky boy and the girl attached to his side. It’s Flynn and fake Hattie.
I bet she’s going to lure him into the woods and hack his head off for sport before feeding him to the Spectators. Flynn is about to become a delicacy, and he doesn’t even know it.
I pluck my phone from my bra and send a quick text to Coop.
Change of plans. Up for a hot date in Sleepy Hollow?
He texts back a few seconds later. Let’s not and say we did. If you’re in the mood to be chased, I can make other arrangements.
A private smile curves my lips at the thought of Coop chasing me around the furniture. Of course I’d let him catch me—tackle me.
Typical Coop—everything I say is somehow attached to his balls.
I glance up and catch Flynn disappearing deep into the velvet reserve of the forest, the long arm of the demon who’s leading the way, still mercilessly attached to his side.
I’m going without you. Take that, Coop. I’m not some damsel in distress that needs to be saved. Or at least I’d better not be.
The air outside slices over my bare thighs as I bolt from Austen House, still in my cheer uniform.
I run all the way past the ridge and catch a glimpse of the two of them as they make their way into the first layer of the thicket.
“Flynn!” I scream, but the wind cups its hand over my mouth and buffers him from my warning.
“Laken,” a familiar voice booms from behind.
I’d know that voice anywhere—Coop.
I’m relieved to see Cooper as he jogs up beside me. He wraps an arm around my waist as if it belonged there, and a part of me believes it does.
“Let’s get out of here.” He darts a quick glance behind me.
“No.” I pull him along. “We can’t stop.” We dive deeper into the thicket. A narrow seam of moonlight dots a path through the maze of tree trunks. “I’m glad it’s you.” My voice quivers as we speed past branch after branch. “I might have aborted the entire mission if it were Wes—and then Flynn would be in knee-deep with the Fen-emy.”
“What are you talking about?” He interlaces our fingers and gives me a tug, reluctant to keep up with my fervent pace.
“I’m talking about Flynn, alone in this forest with Hattie the lying Fem.”
Cooper slows to a crawl before we get any deeper into the haunted woods.
“I’m not losing sleep to save Masterson’s ass.” He tries to catch his breath.
“Then maybe you’ll lose sleep to save mine,” I say, jogging out a few more feet in a rather stupid show of bravado.
I glance back to see if Coop is falling for it, and he is.
“Laken.” He picks up my hand and reels me in.
Coop washes over me with that magnetizing stare. Those hypnotic grey lenses of his are having their way with me, I can tell. Heat rises from our bodies. I can feel the fire of this special brand of lust we share percolating into something out of control, something I might never want to stop.
“Who the hell cares if Flynn gets eaten alive by an entire coven of Spectators?” His heated breath rakes against my cheek, and a choking sound emits from my throat. “It’s bound to happen eventually.”
For a moment I’m not sure if he’s talking about Flynn’s untimely demise or the two of us exploding from this powder keg of wanting.
“Flynn’s a smart boy.” Not really, but it was say that or kiss Coop.
He gives my hand a squeeze, and his cheek cinches up the side.
Crap.
Everything in me relaxes as I give a little laugh.
Coop and I have no secrets, and I like it this way.
It’s magic like this with Coop. He takes the evil, the wickedness of these woods and transforms them into something good. That’s the best part about you, Coop. You’re always protecting, always looking out for me no matter what. And you wash away all the fear in the process.
He pulls me in and looks lovingly into my eyes before the smile dissipates from his face. “You didn’t hear me.”
“No, I guess not. I heard your voice, but the words sounded like murmurs.” It sounded like a waterfall of erotic moans, and now I’m dying to know what he said.
He gives a sly grin. “Were you able to hear me at the game tonight?”
“Barely. It’s cutting out—although, I heard plenty from Wesley. Toward the end of the night it just sort of fizzled.”
“Anything happen that you think I should know about?” His features glow a pale shade of silver under the anemic stream of moonlight. “Stuff that had to do with Celestra…”
Coop lets the words hang in the air as if they were a mere suggestion, as if I could tell him anything I wanted about my time with Wes.
“He talked about these mysterious woods,” I whisper. “Some strange place where he’d like to take me. He confessed to having a secret, and I think he’s ready to share that final step with me.”
“Tenebrous Woods,” Coop whispers it low, under his breath. “It’s what the Counts call the Celestra tunnels. I’ve heard of it. Thought it was a myth up until I met you.” He brings my hand to his lips and presses in a scorching kiss. A part of me burns for his lips to land in other places, every place.
Coop glances up, the whites of his eyes shining like glints of a broken mirror.
“He’s says he’s going to take me there.” I’m quick to lead us back to the topic at hand. Although, somehow mentioning Wes right now feels like a pox has landed over a special moment.
“Do you know when?” Coop shakes his head and drinks me in as if there were a different conversation going on entirely.
“I’m guessing soon.” I hold his stare for a moment before dusting the ground with my gaze. “I sweetened the pot for him.”
“Got it.” He’s says it low, filled with disappointment. “Is that what you want? Wait—don’t answer. It’s none of my business.”
“I sort of feel like it is your business.” I look up at him. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know what I want. As much as I tell him it’s the only way to pull me back into his world—I wonder if it’s the only way to bring him back to mine. Maybe if he loved me deeply, intimately, he would wake up and realize who he really is.”
“The one that you love.”
I tighten my grip over Coop’s hand as if we were about to drift apart in an angry sea. I can feel his heart getting crushed under the weight of Cider Plains, and I hate it.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp. “I never set out to hurt you. I swear it.”
“I know.” He steps in until we’re just a breath away. I feel faint, dizzy being this close to him, wanting him in a way that I thought was reserved exclusively for Wesley. He touches his cheek to mine, and my soul, my body swims with an erotic elation.
Off in the distance, the murmur of voices catapult into the night.
“Let’s do this,” he whispers. Coop leads us out in the direction of the voices until we come up on Flynn and that thing parading around as Hattie. Another girl pops up alongside them, deformed and bedraggled, and I gasp.
“Shit!” I bury my face into Coop’s chest at the sight of the decomposing girl. I steal a quick glance before slowly taking her in. She’s a bona fide, partially resurrected, once-upon-a-person about our age with clothes shredded to pieces from the natural wear and tear that only several decades could bring. Her dark hair is splayed out like cotton candy, and she looks as if mud baths were a part of her normal routine.
My natural inclination is to take Flynn and Coop by the hand and run the hell out of this demented den of the ungrateful dead, or kill both Hattie and her little monster before they kill us.
“She’s here’s to help.” Flynn holds out a hand in the event Coop is motivated to beat me to the slaughter.
“Which one?” I say it sharp, my voice resonating boldly through the woods. “Because neither of them is human.”
Flynn shakes his head. “This one.” He slaps his arm over the Spectator’s shoulder, and her collarbone spears out as a jagged white shard. “Dude.” Flynn backs up heavy with remorse. “So sorry.”
“How’s it going to help us?” Coop asks, not giving the Spectator any gender-related dignity. I suppose compartmentalizing them is necessary since he’s been assigned to slaughter the malfunctioned scientific ventures. The Counts are morons for trying to immortalize themselves to begin with. Although if they hadn’t, Wes wouldn’t be here and neither would I.
“She’s going to help us locate Hattie’s family,” Flynn says, glancing back at the decomposing being like he’s truly smitten. “She’s got the low-down on the who’s who of Spectator society—says she can locate the right people for the right price.”
“And what price might that be?” I’m almost positive US currency holds as little value in the Spectator underground as it does in the real world.
Flynn cuts a glance from me to Coop, the whites of his eyes reflecting like beacons. “She wants a cure. She’s agreed to undergo any experiment necessary to make her normal again.”
“How old was she when they did this to her?” I walk around her in a slow circle, mostly inspecting her for weaponry.
“Sev-un-teen,” she grunts, barely discernable. “Ma name is Pearl.”
Cooper
Pearl.
I blow a stiff breath from my lungs as I scrutinize the walking corpse with her hair waving in the breeze like threads unraveling from a sweater. She seems harmless enough with her large bruised eyes, her lips split in three places. Her fingers have reduced to bone, making her look older than the seventeen years she proposed.
A horrible sadness grips me as I inspect what the Counts are capable of. Pearl is a walking example of why the Countenance needs to be stopped. This could easily be me one day, Marky. And now they want the Spectators eliminated for simply being an inconvenience. All that the Spectators want is their lives back. The Celestra involved were never allowed to choose whether or not they wanted to be resurrected. They were simply murdered and brought back to life like some D minus science experiment.
“Do you belong to Countenance?” I ask point blank. I’m not sure if it’ll matter to Ezrina, the troll-like creature who works for the Counts, but in the end I’d like to know whom I’m dealing with.
“Celestra.” She glances down as if it were a defeat to mention it.
“Even better.” Laken wraps her arm around my waist from behind, using me as a shield in the event the creatures in our presence decide to go ape shit.
“I like the idea of saving a Celestra rather than a Count,” she says. The words vibrate over my spine like an erotic Morse code. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” She whispers hot in my ear.
“We’ll take her to the Transfer tonight.” I give a slight nod. “Flynn, why don’t you take Hattie back to Austen, and we’ll meet up with you guys in the morning. Good work, man.” I add that last part with sincerity and hit him with a knuckle bump.
If Ezrina has the ability to restore Pearl to her former glory then it might spare me of having to eradicate an entire race, not to mention, it would free the Tobias family.
Coop, Laken presses into me, still peering from over my shoulder. I may have tried to kill our fake friend Hattie earlier by way of cooking utensils.
It takes everything in me to hold back the laugh brewing in my chest.
“Apologize,” I cough it out. The last thing we want is for the Fem to know we’re onto her.
Laken steps out from behind just as they head back toward the dorms.
“Hattie, Flynn?” Her voice sounds fragile, still apprehensive as to what it might mean.
Hattie steps forward. She drops Flynn’s hand as if getting ready for a street fight.
“I’m sorry about freaking out in the kitchen earlier.” Laken clears her throat. “I thought maybe you were trying to take advantage of Flynn. He’s a good friend of mine, and I don’t want to see him get hurt. Take it easy on him, would you?”
Flynn balks at the idea. He damn well knows she’s a Fem because I told him so myself. It’s this kind of dicey behavior that highlights the fact he never should have been dragged into this to begin with. I think it’s heroic he’s trying to find his sister, but he’s more of a liability at this point. I could get Casper out of the tunnels without his help.
“You don’t have to worry about me hurting anybody, Laken,” Hattie growls. The words drill through the air more like a threat than an assurance. “I’m here to help, and once you see that, maybe you’ll trust me just a little bit more. I want my family back as much as you do.”
Flynn takes up her hand, and they speed from the vicinity as if the entire forest were about to go up in flames.
“Pearl,” I say unsure of whether or not I want to proceed. I’d much rather take Laken back to the house even if means risking a lecture from my dad. “We’re going to take you to the lab where they did this to you.”
“Ezrina,” she gurgles, sounding like an injured dog in the process.
“Yes, Ezrina. She’s going to try and fix this for you. Are you okay with that?” I take a step toward her. She’s small in stature. Her bent frame makes her look far more fragile and older than she really is. I’ve taken on Spectators twice my size before and have managed to end up on the winning side of the battle every single time. Although, all it would take is one good bite, and everything changes forever. A first generation Spectator has the ability to damn me to their unfortunate lifestyle. Wes and Laken are second gen. Laken is welcome to bite me every night of the week if she wants.
“How do we get down to the Transfer?” Laken’s chest pumps with adrenaline.
I shake my head. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you—just follow me, and trust you’ll survive.” I pull her in gently and press a kiss against her forehead. I would never hurt you, Laken. I love you.
“I trust you.” She gives a furtive nod with fear spreading wide over her features.
Can you hear me? I ask.
Laken doesn’t answer, just blinks into me while trying to control her breathing.
Looks like this might end up a magical night after all.
I was once told that hauling yourself off the Matapeake cliff was one of the most efficient entries into the Transfer as far as this end of Connecticut is concerned. That usually doesn’t work for me for two reasons, one, it’s a fifty minute drive with no traffic, and two, I’m usually hauling unwilling Spectators or their carcasses at the time. The second best way to get to that alternate dimensional plane is to run like hell into the boulders that cluster at Diamond Peak just north of the woods on campus. A clearing stems from the forest over to the colossal wall of granite, affording a nice little runway.
“When I say go, haul ass like you’ve never done before.” I give a quick wink to Laken, while pulling her in by the hand. I’ve strapped Pearl over my shoulders, cinching her ankles and wrists together with my fingers. I’ve yet to bring a Spectator to the Transfer willingly, and yet I don’t think she could keep up even if I tried to pull her.
“This is so messed up.” Laken shakes her head at the impending target as the moon sprays the stones a glorious, luminescent blue.
“Ready, go!” I shout as we cut through the clearing, the wind slices through our clothes, sharp as knives.
I catch a glimpse of Laken just shy of the boulders. She twists her face away from the prospective doom and squeezes her eyes shut tight.
The granite vibrates and hums as we enter in through the strange portal. We slip in through a warble of air, thick as syrup as we land feet-first in the slick white halls of the lab.
“It worked!” Laken pulls me into an embrace with her lips brushing over my cheek.
“We made it,” I say, lowering Pearl to her unsteady feet. “You okay?” I bow into her and examine the fear in her eyes as if her final moments were on the horizon, and they might be.
“Okay.” She nods, darting her head every which way as if anticipating an apocalypse.
“As far as I can tell, this is the main hub of the Transfer.” I take up Laken’s hand, ready and willing to give her the tour. “There’s a mansion out on the east side and a series of hills and rivers that snake throughout the terrain. I’ve found three waterfalls and a lake. The inhabitants aren’t too fond of Nephil-humans, so I don’t venture outside the lab, too often.”
“Lakes and rivers? Waterfalls and mansions? Sounds magical.” Laken bounces on her toes as if excited to see it.
“It’s not magical—demonic maybe. It’s more haunted than it is romantic, but if you want”—I tick my head toward Pearl—“after, I can show you around.”
“I want.” Laken tenderly clasps our fingers together. “I want to know the things you know. I never want there to be secrets between us.” She glances down a moment. “It’s funny because I keep saying that to Wes—and with you, I really feel like you hear the things I say. That you’ll keep your word and expose me to your world without hesitating.” She swallows hard. “I don’t know why the truth is so hard for some people.”
I shake my head. “I can’t say I’m too sorry, Laken. I’ve never been that impressed with Wes. You deserve better.”
Laken glances up. Her eyes widen with surprise at my brazen putdown of the love of her life.
“This way,” I whisper before I say something else that lands me in a bed by myself tonight. I lead Pearl and Laken down hall after hall until we hit an open room that’s cavernous in nature with a set of steel beds lining the center. The putrid stench of death fills the air like a gas. It makes Pearl’s scent seem like a floral bouquet on a summer afternoon.
“Cooking something up for dinner?” I tease as we make our way over to the old bat hunched at the counter.
Ezrina turns around, and Laken lets out a gasp.
Ezrina has a wild appeal in general. I suspect she’s used to the gasps and screams. Her orange hair sprays out like some demonic Bozo, her skin looks poorly stitched together, and she’s wrinkled and haggard beyond recognition of ever being human. Her crooked frame outshines that of Pearl’s in the I’m-so-much-more-damn-scarier-than-you department.
“Visitors?” Her voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard, and to add to the misery, it has a knack for echoing.
“You know Laken and Pearl. They’ve both been victim to your resurrection methods, one less successful than the other.”
“The Counts!” She lifts her hand to me as if she’s ready to smack me, and I yield to her twisted logic.
“I know it’s not you. It’s the Counts.” I shake my head a moment. “We need Pearl here spit shined and ready to go with a brand new version of herself in time for the weekend. She’s got a hot date.” I wink over at Laken. I’ve never had a serious conversation with this battle-ax, and I’m not about to start now.
Ezrina puts down the wicked tool she’s wielding and circles around Pearl. She pulls the Spectator’s hair back and inspects her neck for signs of trauma.
“Can be done,” she gravels.
“You can do this?” Laken steps into her, indignant at the possibility. “You can fix all these poor Spectators?”
“Try.” Ezrina shuffles toward the metal bathtub and begins to fill it with a blue solution from a hose off the floor.
“She’s not too big on complete sentences,” I whisper as we watch her gather her instruments of torture.
Pearl hobbles in close, her gaze drifts from me to Laken.
“I be okay?” she asks, vulnerable and afraid.
I don’t know what to tell her. She might die in a few minutes if things go very wrong and if history is in the mood to repeat itself, things will go very wrong.
Laken steps in and offers Pearl an all-encompassing embrace. She rubs her back and rocks her for a moment as if she were comforting a child.
“If Cooper trusts Ezrina, then so do I.” Laken pulls back with her arms still around the Spectator like they were old friends. “As soon as we get word about your restoration, we’ll be back to pick you up. You won’t be alone in the world. I promise.”
Tears stream from the malformed girl as she strains to look up at Laken. Her entire person shivers with hope, and it makes me feel like shit because deep inside I don’t anticipate things ending well.
“Let’s go.” I pull Laken into me and lead her out of the room. “I’ll check on you in the morning, Pearl,” I say as we walk toward the exit. I look right into her innocent eyes. “You’re in good hands.”
“Cooper?” Ezrina tucks her chin and glowers at me as if she might carve up my head with a paring knife for the fun of it.
I stop shy of the doorway, and she limps on over.
“Per the Countenance, the Spectators must die.”
I give the slightest hint of a nod.
“I have a way,” Ezrina looks slightly more than proud of her extermination method, whatever it might be. “All of them dead.” She heads back toward Pearl as I guide Laken out of the defunct laboratory, quick as possible.
“Don’t start with that one,” I shout as we take off.
Pearl lets out a howl of either pain or approval as we sail toward the exit.
All of them dead.
I give a hard blink. The thought of committing murder on a mass scale doesn’t sit well with me. I won’t do it. Wes and the Counts have another thing coming. I’ve got a gut feeling there will be blood on my hands, only it won’t have anything to do with the Spectators.
We step out of the lab and into the dull, still night, perpetually illuminated by a lavender-blue sky. I point out the mansion in the distance—tall and boxy with an undeniable prowess. Its large wrought iron gates swing open like wings.
“Creepy.” Laken hugs my right arm as we move along the cobbled streets. A crowd barrels in this direction, all of them chattering a million miles an hour—women with their old fashioned hairstyles, their odd dresses that hang to the floor with expansive hoopskirts, bustles up top that accentuate their assets. A man with a handlebar mustache escorts two women with their arms hooked at the elbows.
“They look straight out of the eighteenth century,” Laken gasps. “Are they?”
“No clue.” I pull her to the side as they approach, but one of the women makes it a point to walk right through Laken.
“Oh my, God!” A bubbling laugh escapes her. “Did that just happen?”
“That just happened.” I tighten my grip around her waist, and she relaxes into me with her soft curves. “They like to mess with us. They’re not hospitable to guests.”
“You said there were waterfalls. Can we see those?” Laken looks as enthused and happy to be here as a kid at an amusement park. I can’t say I blame her. The Transfer has all the qualities of a haunted theme park and then some. It’s one hell of a ride, that’s for sure.
“This way.” I lead us down a darkened path that takes us straight through a forest. The trees bend unnaturally, nothing you’d find in nature with their corrugated leaves, their charred trunks and branches. Everything needs a little TLC, a miracle, to even hope to survive.
The hills knot up on the horizon, and we crest the top and take a seat in the shaggy pasture.
“It looks amazing in a morbid sort of way.” She leans in and sighs.
The waterfalls can hardly afford a trickle. The lake below is more than slightly dehydrated.
“I don’t know what this world is about—why the residents seem to prefer the fashion sense of yesterday, or even why and how Ezrina ended up here. But I do know that for whatever reason, for whatever purpose, someone wanted my family to have access to this place. I don’t believe in coincidences, Laken. We’re both here for a very specific reason.”
I pull her back onto the lawn with me. Our eyes lock for a moment, and the air thickens between us with possibilities. Laken lies down, and I pull myself gently over her, positioning my neck where she could draw from it with ease.
“Go ahead,” I encourage. “Take whatever you need from me. I want you to have it.”
“Coop.” Laken reaches up and traces my lips, my eyes with her fingertips. “You’re amazing, you know that?” The words come out in a broken whisper.
“I think you have it backward. If anyone is amazing, it’s you. Thank you for trusting me.”
Her fingers trace down to my neck, stroking me with all of the affection she can afford.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for all you’ve done—that you’re about to do.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Her fingers curl around the back of my neck and she sinks me down to her lips.
Just love me, Laken. That’s all I would ever want in return.
But she doesn’t hear it.
Wesley
Cooper Flanders’ truck sits parked in front of Melville all night long and into the early hours of the morning. By the time I shower and dress and head out to check on it again, I find it missing.
The sun crests over the library in the distance only to meet up with a layer of rust-colored clouds. The air holds the scent of pines and unearthed soil as a few restless bodies sprint by, sacrificing sleep for fitness.
My phone reads seven-thirty. I’m not sure if Coop’s ever crashed at Melville before, but when I scanned the house for him at two a.m., I sure as hell couldn’t find him.
My messages sit empty. I texted Laken last night, and she didn’t answer. I thought maybe we could talk a little. I wanted to share just enough about the Tenebrous Woods to prepare her for the journey, but she never texted back.
Are you up for breakfast? I hit send. In the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder if she was with Coop last night.
I shake the thought away.
Coop probably got lucky and landed a very inebriated Grayson Evans in a marathon f*ck-fest that rendered him too jacked up to drive.
My phone buzzes softly in my hand—it’s a text from Laken, and I’m flooded with relief.
Oops sorry! Just saw your message a second ago. I’m headed to the mall with Carter. Shopping for something HOT to knock you off your feet next week. xoxo
Nice. And she ended it with hugs and kisses, so already I feel better.
Something HOT to knock you off your feet. I give a little laugh. Laken could knock me off my feet in a winter coat and a paper bag over her head. That girl is a dangerous combination of cute and downright sexy.
Have fun. I shoot it over to her.
“Paxton!”
I turn to find Fletcher jogging along the road with beads of sweat tracking down his temples. He pulls up beside me panting like he’s just run a miracle mile, clearly out of shape and breath.
“Suicide mission before breakfast?” I’m only half-teasing. Fletch hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since as long as I can remember.
“Such is life, dude.” He touches his fingers to the ground before huffing and puffing himself to an upright position. “I had this weird dream last night.” He plucks a water bottle from his sweats and proceeds to down it.
I predict instant stomach cramps in his future but don’t say a word. Fletch is better suited as a mathlete than an athlete, that’s for sure.
“Did you dream you passed gas in the forest and you didn’t hear a sound? Sort of makes you question your existence, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, right.” His features harden as if this were serious. “It was intense. It was you and me and we were drinking—knocking back beers, vodka, moonshine—you name it, we tormented our livers with it.”
“Sounds like a typical weekend.” At least it did before things got serious between Laken and me. I’ve taken a turn for the sober since we’ve been together. No more reckless partying for me, all alcohol related tendencies have left the building after that first kiss we shared. Laken inebriates me with her kisses, intoxicates me with those velum-colored eyes.
“There was nothing typical about it.” His features darken. “We went out and swam in this black sea, some kind of lake—and started goofing off. You went under first, and I tried to lug your sorry ass to shore, but got sucked under. Dude, I could feel my clothes taking on weight—I never came back up. Water filled my lungs, and I had this incredible peace.” He glances toward campus. “Then I saw Edinger’s face.” He shakes his head. “So f*cking weird. We were dead just like that.”
My heart thumps just once. Fletch startled me with his stupid dream, but I don’t want to show it.
Laken and her strange line of thinking come to mind. She mentioned that Fletch and I drowned in a lake.
“It’s weird like you, dude.” I sock him in the arm like it’s no big deal. “Speaking of weird, Flanders crashed at Melville last night.”
“Why’s that weird?” He loses his attention to a group of girls jogging on the opposite side of the road.
“Just is. He’s never done that before. As far as I know, he doesn’t party.”
“Sounds like some female persuasion was involved.” He shrugs. “Who the hell cares if Flanders gets laid?”
“Me, that’s who. Ask around. See if it was Grayson.”
He scoffs at the thought. Fletch would give his right nut to bag Evans.
“This is about my sister, isn’t it?” He squints as the sweat trickles from his forehead.
“It’s always about your sister,” I say, taking off toward campus. The morning sun shines over Asterion, blinding me momentarily. Makes me wonder if I’ve been blinded in bigger ways all along.
“Where you going?” Fletch calls out.
“I’ve got a meeting.”
An unscheduled meeting with Demetri Edinger to be exact, and I’m coming with questions.
Not that I expect answers.
He never gives anything voluntarily.
I hope to God Laken is wrong about everything, or I will never forgive myself for not believing her.
By the time I hit the base of the hill and end up in the marbled halls of the English building, the north wind pushes in a surge of boiling clouds with a breeze so chilly, your bones want to shiver for weeks.
I walk casually past Edinger’s room just in case someone’s in there other than his wicked ass, and low and behold there’s a blonde seated at a desk scribbling something in a notebook. It’s Hattie.
Strange.
It’s Saturday. Who the hell sits in class and does work on a weekend? Sure the homework load at Ephemeral is to capacity, but that’s what libraries are for—or the dorms.
Laken really freaked out on her last night. Maybe she was upset, and her way of dealing with it is hitting the books? But in class?
“Wesley.” Edinger stains the doorframe like a shadow. “I sensed you were here.” He bleeds a slow spreading smile. “Are you going to pace the halls or come inside?”
I nod and head over.
Sensed you were here. I always knew he had a lot in common with canines—bitches to be exact.
Inside, Hattie swipes her desk clean before standing.
Her dark eyes linger over me an inordinate amount of time before she walks slowly out of the room.
Strange. Not even a hello, not that I offered one.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Edinger folds his hands across his chest like he’s ready for a casket.
“I want to know if Laken Anderson is really Laken Stewart.”
He needles me with a penetrative stare as if reading my thoughts from three feet away.
“What is this?” He shakes his head dismissively. “Your girlfriend having an identity crisis? What does this have to do with me?” He tucks his chin and glares as if I’m wasting his time, and I hope to God that’s all this is.
“I’m telling you”—my voice shakes with anger—“if I find out you’re f*cking with me in ways I could never imagine, I swear on all that is holy, I will find a way to take down your wicked ass and cover the streets with your blood. Oh, that’s right. You don’t have any.”
“Refrain from cursing in my presence.” His body solidifies as if I’ve enraged him on some level, that wicked grin immovable as concrete.
I’m out of here.
“Wesley?”
I pause without giving him the privilege of looking back.
“If I were you,” he starts in slow, “I would choose my words with a little more caution. If I were tampering with you, in ways you could never imagine, then your creativity is, for a better word, lacking. Think outside the proverbial box. You’re a smart young man—good genes. I would venture to say, the best.”
I glance back and glare at him a moment.
Somewhere, lost in that transitive babble, lays the answer to all my questions.
“Per usual, you’re full of shit,” I say, heading out the door and out of the English building.
Demetri Edinger, usually is.
The clouds press in low, denying us any evidence that the sun had ever shown over Ephemeral. My mind replays Laken’s cryptic beliefs on a loop. A tight knot seizes in the pit of my stomach at the thought of Laken and her crazy alternate reality ever being right.
I’m Wesley Paxton. My mother is an administrator here on campus, and my father runs the legal arm of Althorpe in New York.
Then it hits me. Laken has probably been feeding Fletch this bullshit by the bowlful. No wonder he’s having nightmares.
A swell of relief swims through me.
That’s all it is. That’s all it could ever be.
Hattie flies to the forefront of my mind like a rattle of doubt. Laken said she wasn’t human. Then what the hell is she? My stomach sours a moment. Maybe that explains why she was hanging out with my least favorite Fem on a Saturday morning.
I try to push the thought out of my mind. The last thing I need is to get sucked into Laken’s delusions and drag down the rest of the student body with me.
“Hey, Wes.” A couple of guys pop up on either side of me and begin walking me to the back of the building at a quickened pace.
“What’s going on?” The one to my right is built like a door, blond, and I swear I know him from somewhere. But the one on my left—his black hair, that all-too-familiar face, startles me. It let’s me know something’s not right. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was having a nightmare. He looks spot on, exactly like me.
“We thought we’d formally introduce ourselves,” the blond dude says as they launch me into the thorny bushes.
“Shit,” I hiss, plucking my sweatshirt free from the teeth of the overgrown shrubbery. “What the f*ck?” They might be ripe for a fight, but right about now, so am I. The blond winces, he narrows in on me with an intense level of hatred, then it hits me. Every muscle in my body freezes. I know him.
“You’re the Elysian.” Skyla’s Elysian.
“Logan Oliver.” He ticks his head back as if things were suddenly casual, as if he and his buddy, that happens to wear my face, didn’t just travel two years into the past to pay me a visit. “My nephew here has been dying to meet you. His fist is looking forward to bonding with your lips—you know—those things you use to hurt Skyla with?”
My clone steps forward. “Gage Oliver,” he says, examining me. “I’d tell you to memorize my face because you’ll be seeing a lot of it, but it looks like you’ve one-upped me and put it on like a mask.” He pulls his fist back before digging his knuckles into my jaw. My teeth bite over my tongue, and a squirt of blood runs down my throat.
Shit.
I let out a hard groan as I fall back into the spiked bushes. My sweatshirt gets caught, and my arms lock, wide open, exposing myself to his viral assault.
Gage pummels me to a level of pain that can only be described as the other side of nirvana. This is no amateur hour beating. This is an old school ass kicking from a muscle-milk guzzler who knows a thing or two about weak points and inflicting near-death experiences.
Can’t lift my head. Each one of my ribs feels severely fractured as my legs buckle beneath me, and I slip to the ground. The sweatshirt I was wearing still hangs high in the branches on the thorns that pinned it.
“Skyla sends you her love.” He shouts from above as a shoe bullets through my stomach. He takes a step forward and repeats the effort into my skull, and the world mercifully fades to nothing.