Celestra: Books 1-2

by Addison Moore

  “We did.” I think Tad’s the liability.

  My cell goes off, and it’s a text from Logan.

  I’ve long suspected you were lethal.

  I slip my phone back under my thigh. I don’t feel like ticking off Tad or my mother anymore by texting while they try to break me.

  “We think you need counseling, Skyla.” My mother measures her words. Her cheeks have hollowed out since we’ve been here, and she has dark circles under her eyes the size of half dollars.

  “We met with a local therapist a few days ago.” Tad interjects. “It was just a consult. We never imagined you were capable of something like this, but now I’m afraid we’re going to have to insist.”

  “I don’t have any problem going to a therapist.” If he’s on Paragon, they’ll have to stay.

  “I’m really glad you feel that way.” Tad gives a sad smile. “We called him a few minutes ago. He thinks we should bring you in for a full evaluation this evening.”

  “It’s two in the morning. What kind of doctor works at this hour?” I ask. Something doesn’t smell right.

  “Actually,” my mom says with tears in her eyes. “He wants you to check into the hospital so you can have a goodnights rest when he’s ready to see you.” Her lips twitch. Her lips always twitch when she stretches the truth.

  “Are you taking me to the psych ward?” Words I never thought would come from my lips.

  “Yes.”

  48

  Spooked

  Paragon hospital lies smack in the center of the island. The fog has rolled back into the sea, and I see the bare naked landscape under the harsh disclosure of a sharp white moon.

  Tad confiscated my cell phone before we left the house. I wasn’t allowed to say bye to the girls because they were sleeping. Drake came out looking sleep deprived, and when they told him where they were taking me and why, his face bleached out.

  The doctor will probably discover things about me I never knew—that I’m a killer and lock me up forever. I really believe that somehow I killed Chloe. Even if I wasn’t responsible for the destruction of her life, I hastened it just like Logan implied.

  We pull into a tall rectangle of a building. A glossy white brick path leads into a set of double sliding doors, and a blast of warm air hits me. I hadn’t even realized I was cold.

  The elevator goes up for days, spits us out onto violent red carpet and a reception area with a nurse out front. A set of double wood doors with tiny, boxed shaped windows is the only other thing around.

  A male nurse in bright blue scrubs emerges from inside. He holds the door open and extends his hand for us to enter.

  I’m part way inside before I notice my mother and Tad aren’t trailing. Tad is already pushing the button for the next set of elevators, and my mother gives a silent wave as the nurse shuts the door behind him.

  They weren’t going to come inside. No long, drawn out goodbye, no kiss from my mother—just a half hearted wave goodbye—the cold slam of the door.

  ***

  Tears fill the crook of my arm. I lay on a glorified elongated box that’s bolted into the floor with no sheets and no pillow, locked in a dark room by myself.

  “Skyla.” A familiar voice originates from the side.

  I jump back and scream. There’s a small ray of light beaming in from the nurses station.

  “It’s me, Gage.”

  I rush into his arms and collapse in a fit of heaving sobs.

  “I can’t stay.” He whispers into my hair. “They’ll check you every fifteen minutes. Logan wants you to go to sleep. He can visit you there.”

  “He can? Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “He was saving it.” He tightens his grip on me. “They’re coming. Goodnight.” He presses his lips against my forehead until he disappears.

  I use the back of my arm as a tissue and wipe a long streak of snot across the entire length of it. I still haven’t showered. I can feel the sticky residue of blood in places I missed, high up near my elbows, the crevices of my wrist. Lying back down, I start to drift into beautiful dreams that will soon be filled with Logan.

  ***

  Logan dreams us near a crystal blue lake on a bright summer day, in some other place far from Paragon where the sun isn’t afraid to shine.

  We wrap our arms around each other on a grassy knoll so steep we’re almost vertical.

  “Comfortable?” He asks wiping the tears from my eyes.

  “Yes.” My voice sounds muffled, and I wonder if it has anything to do with me being locked in a padded room.

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Did Gage say so? Why didn’t I think of that? I should have made Gage tell me everything about my future.”

  “It’s not right of him to do that.” Logan strokes my hair. It calms me down. Makes me want to stay in this dream forever.

  “I’m desperate,” I say.

  “You don’t need to be. Take in the Master’s peace. He wants this anxiety, give it to him.”

  “I don’t know how to send it.”

  He lies back on the emerald lawn. A deflated balloon appears on his fingertips.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your anti-stress agent. Imagine all of your stress filling up this balloon. Come on.” He urges.

  I imagine all of the anxiety, the fear, the hurt, rejection, loneliness—grief, filling up that balloon.

  In one fell swoop it bloats the size of a basketball. Logan ties it off on the bottom and simply lets go.

  “There it goes.” He says mock shooting it with his fingers.

  We watch as it reduces in size, as it turns into a speck and blinks out of existence. The celestial blue of the sky is increasingly deeper near the northern portion—stars are visible—right here midday.

  “It’s done.” I feel lighter from the effort. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me.”

  “Right. Thanks,” I call up to the sky.

  There’s so much more I don’t understand. So many more balloons to fill in this lifetime. I wonder how he has time to hear them all or if they accumulate around him until he’s overwhelmed. I imagine I’ll get to ask him myself one day. He’ll show me a pile of decimated latex, and I’ll get to thank him all over.

  We fall asleep safe in one another’s arms. Logan and I intertwined. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep alone again.

  49

  Out

  Breakfast is served in the dayroom with a group of individuals who are either stoned or genuine zombies.

  A nurse, with a severe case of adult acne, supervises with a clipboard, circling the table in a rotational manner that actually makes me dizzy.

  All of the windows are barricaded with either wood framing or some kind of metal bars that make long rectangular patterns alternating with shorter squares, and some of those are in color.

  Along the back wall, a giant piece of butcher paper is taped up behind the television. It’s a picture of a cabin by a lake with a boat bobbing in the middle, all done in magic marker, and it reeks of third grade. This is what my life has come to, breakfast with zombies and finger-paints.

  A short woman dressed in an over cheery shade of pink, slaps a plastic tray with a covered dome in front of me. I pull the lid off ready for the big reveal, hopeful for something palatable even though I’m not that hungry. It’s a small bowl of white foamy mush, a piece of burnt toast, and a small portion of lumpy scrambled eggs that smell like a wet dog. I replace the dome and sink down in my seat.

  Without asking, the rather over eager zombie to my left glides my tray over and grunts into it. He quickly dumps my portions into his own tray and slides mine back empty.

  Great. Guess I’ll wait for the next fresh serving of brains.

  “Skyla Messenger?” A slim man with dark hair and thick-framed glasses leans into the dayroom clutching at my chart. “Come with me, please.”

  I follow behind him a good two feet, down the never-ending hall. I can feel the air rising up through my
pale yellow gown, my sticky-back socks catching on the carpet all the way over.

  He unlocks an over-bright room equipped with two seats and a table, asks me to be seated before clicking the door shut behind us.

  “Dr. Booth.” His face brightens. He’s got tiny brown eyes shadowed by furry brows, and he’s just now starting to remind me a little of a teddy bear. He flops the chart on the table and folds his arm high up on his chest, examining me.

  “Am I supposed to say something?”

  He shakes his head rather bored. It’s like the door shut and he’s loosened. He probably does this with all his patients. He’s nothing more than a big fake that bilks insurance companies. He’ll probably want to keep me locked up for the next five years to insure his annual Hawaiian vacation.

  “I want to go home,” I say weak.

  “I’m going to let you, but first we need to have a little talk.”

  A surge of adrenaline percolates through me. He’s going to let me go home!

  “Yes, anything.” I’ll make stuff up, tell him whatever he wants to hear, just get me out of here.

  “I know who you are, Skyla. I know you’re a Celestra.”

  Oh God. Oh no. He’s one of them. Tad sent me right in the arms of some psycho Count who wants to kill me. He’s probably going to keep me locked up for good, and issue a battery of blood tests until I have none left.

  “I’m Levatio.” He gives a tiny laugh and offers his hand.

  “Really?” I shake his hand. “One of my good friends is Levatio!” I’m surging now. I’ve beat Tad at his own game.

  “Gage Oliver,” he says knowing. “I’ve known the Oliver’s from times and times past.” He widens his ultra calm smile.

  “So you’re going to let me go, right?” Maybe he can convince my parent’s I’m totally sane, lock Tad up instead.

  “I’ll let you go, but I might have to incarcerate you from time to time just to make it look good.” He stretches his smile then snaps it back to the way it was.

  “What?”

  “Kidding.” He pats me on the arm before leaning deep into his seat. “I know the problems you Celestra have. You’re the one client I’ll have to pay special attention to. Logan mentioned you have a hedge pendant?”

  “Did. I sent it back in time.” It sounds insane even to say it. “Please don’t tell. I want to be the one to tell him.”

  “Your uncle said your blood was stolen from the lab. It means the Countenance has access to your full genetic code. They’re going to want to stop you from ever having children if they don’t kill you first. But that’s not a worry for today. And they’ve certainly let other Celestra live. If they were to wipe out the entire race it might ignite a civil conflict.” His forehead creases dramatically and a look of genuine worry crosses his face.

  “How many are left?”

  “I don’t know, but the numbers aren’t impressive.”

  “Please, just send me home.” I pick off the polish on my fingernails. It’s a nervous habit, and since I’m prone to being nervous I don’t usually wear nail polish to begin with.

  “I’ll have the nurse return your things. I’ve already called your parents. They’ll be here momentarily. I’ve told them I’d wave my office fees since your insurance doesn’t cover all of it. Your stepfather was so thrilled he mentioned it might be worth hanging around.”

  “As in not move?” I don’t believe this. It’s too good to be true.

  “Here’s my number.” He slides over a card. “If you need anything, and I mean anything, I’m more than willing to help you. My great grandmother was a Celestra.” He nods with pride.

  “And what happened to her?”

  “She married a full blood Levatio, so they left her alone.”

  He leads me back out into the hall, shakes my hand, and tells me I’ll see him as minimally as possible.

  I change into my clothes, and the nurse unlocks the door. My mother is alone at the end of the hallway by the window. I go over to her, and we watch the rain on the other side of the glass together in silence.

  “Skyla.” She pulls me into a big weepy hug. “Will you ever forgive me?”

  “Of course.” I feel lighter than air being outside of those double locked doors.

  It’s Tad I won’t forgive.

  50

  Escape

  The girls still believe I spent the night at Brielle’s. No one told them otherwise so they were none the wiser. Drake, on the other hand, invites me to his room in an effort to pick my brain for hours.

  “Did they strap you to the bed? That’s standard protocol.” He adds as though he were preempting my answer.

  “No. They put me in a room with a bed and no pillow. I had to sleep in a gown.”

  “A gown?” He asks incredulously. “You could have hung yourself with a gown.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t. I don’t think there was anyplace to hang myself from.” Not that I’d use that as a means of transportation to the nether world. It’s disgusting. And according to years of lingering in the back of a church—heavily frowned upon.

  “Did they force feed you meds?” He’s gripped. With a father like Tad he might find out firsthand how it all plays out in there.

  “They didn’t give me any.”

  “No meds?” His brows narrow dramatically.

  Obviously I’ve let him down with this bit of information.

  “No, they just took turns beating me with a stick. Then the other patients tried to eat my brain for breakfast. That’s where they keep the real zombies, you know.”

  Drake has gone from the world’s biggest enthusiast to completely unamused.

  “I’d love to sit and chat, but I’ve got a party to go to.”

  “Natalie’s party?” I push back on his bed a notch. It’s on the beach, which I’ve never seen because Paragon seems to be locked in a fog tunnel. “I want to go.”

  “You are nuts. You’re never going anywhere again.” He plucks a t-shirt from out of his dresser.

  “But it’s the end of summer.”

  “It’ll be the end of your life if you go.” He pulls out a pair of jeans from his closet. “I gotta change.”

  I roll my legs off the bed, landing on the cool of the hardwood floors.

  I’m not going miss the biggest party of the summer. I may only have months to live. Besides, what’s the worse that can happen if I go?

  ***

  It turns out Tad has another notarized copy of the one I destroyed. I don’t hesitate signing the agreement this time, just before everyone sails off to bed. It’s not like I’m going to do any of those things anyway, and sneaking out of the house is not listed so I won’t be breaking code. Plus if it gets him off my back I’d sign ten of them.

  In the butterfly room I press against the walls until I hit a seam of cold air and push. A small doorway opens, and I’m in the attic. I hold out my cell phone for light, and tread along the planked pathway until I hit the window facing Brielle’s house. I can’t remember what’s outside the window. I lift the glass and am more than impressed to find a small landing that leads to a lower roofline that leads to the porch. They all look doable this way, but I’m not so sure about coming back. Then again Logan did it. Never mind the fact Logan just so happens to have the strength of a hundred Sumo wrestlers.

  Brielle and Drake are already in her Jeep. Drake looks terrified as though my lawless behavior might rub off and cost him a night in the psych ward, too.

  We take the coastal route. It’s magical at night with the moon spraying its light across the water. I can’t wait to take a nice relaxing walk with Logan, feel the sand between my toes. We can skip rocks and cuddle by the fire, roast marshmallows on the open flame.

  “I have the very distinct feeling of foreboding,” Drake announces in a dramatic fashion from the back.

  “So like, you want me to pull over so you can puke?” Brielle contorts her features with utter disgust.

  “No, foreboding,” he repeats. “It means
eminent danger, misfortune up ahead. I’ve felt like this before and bad things happened. I’ve got this sixth sense for danger.”

  “So I’ll drive slow. And I won’t drink. Arrive alive.” Her voice ends on an up note.

  The possibilities of Drake’s premonition jag in my brain like an out of control train. How come I don’t feel any of these things? Shouldn’t I be the one with some built in warning system?

  The radio goes to static, and Brielle leans in and switches it off.

  A car stalled on the side of the road garners our attention. The hazards are blinking and there’s a woman scissoring her hands wildly into the air.

  “Looks like she needs help.” Brielle doesn’t hesitate to pull in behind her.

  “Are you nuts?” I ask. “She could have a gun or be an ax murderer. It’s eleven thirty at night. We don’t need to be helping anybody.”

  “Relax. She probably just needs to borrow my cell or something. It’s not L.A., sheesh.” Brielle gets out and walks over. The woman steps into the beams from Brielle’s headlights. There’s something familiar about the woman’s wild frizzy mane. Brielle pulls her cell out of her pocket and hands it over.

  “Look’s like she was right,” I say looking back at Drake.

  A pair of headlights slow and pull in behind the Jeep.

  “Looks like help has arrived for the helpers.” Drake leans back and closes his eyes.

  I watch as a large framed man comes over to the driver’s side window.

  Brielle is so right. I would have had ten thousand panic attacks by now if this was L.A., but it’s Paragon. Paragon, where you could probably walk the streets alone, barefoot and naked, and still nothing would happen to you.

  The woman standing with Brielle walks up toward the front of the car. She looks right at me and starts in on a spasmodic wave.

  A scream gets locked in my throat. It’s her! The woman, the ghost—the whatever who hung herself outside my kitchen door!