Celestra: Books 1-2

by Addison Moore

  Then another breath, warm and deep, filling me with an ecstasy I never knew existed.

  ***

  “Skyla. Skyla.”

  The lights flip on, and my mother shakes violently at my shoulder. In a brief moment of dread, I think I overslept. It’s the first day of school, my first ever at West Paragon High. I tossed and turned until the early hours of the morning, ruminating over different scenarios of what my first day as a junior might look like.

  The alarm clock is blocked with her body, so I can’t see the time.

  “You awake?” There’s an uncalled for level of glee in her voice. Her red shaggy hair comes in and out of focus like a blur. I struggle to open my eyes, unable to keep my lids from gluing themselves shut in the harsh light. I give several hard blinks trying to adjust with no avail. I catch a glimpse out the window. It’s pitch black outside, which startles me to attention.

  Maybe my stepfather had some cardiac infarction, and he’s dead. Now that would definitely be worth getting up at an ungodly hour.

  “What?” I pull up on my elbow still squinting the world into focus.

  “Surprise!” She sings the word in two equal parts and steps aside with a laugh.

  Three grotesque creatures dressed in dark cloaks stand in a row. Their heavily disfigured faces stare out at me with hollow eyes, flesh that drips like candle wax, gaunt features that leave me gasping with a scream locked in my throat.

  “Shit!” I mange to hiss, snatching up the covers and backing into the wall.

  A swarm of hands collapse over me in unison. Before I realize it, I’m being dragged off the bed and pushed across the room by way of their aggressive prodding.

  “Mom!” I yell.

  They’re strong—determined. I can’t break free for more than one second before they latch onto me again. “Tad!” I scream for the man I wished dead a minute ago. “They’re Fems!” I yell, as if that should mean anything to my mother. If she were an angel, even the worst one of them, she’d understand the danger I was in.

  “Have a good time!” My mom shouts as they jostle me down the stairs.

  A mouthful of expletives try to unleash themselves at once, but all my vocal cords can manage is an ill-fitted yelp that would embarrass even a small poodle.

  “Mom!” I shrill through the air with my primal cry.

  How can she just stand there? How can she watch me get snatched from the confines of my own bedroom?

  “Wait!” Her voice carries from the top of the stairs.

  The front door gapes wide open exposing the night. The frigid air filters in licking at my bare legs, my arms.

  Mom barrels down the stairs cinching up her nightgown with one hand.

  My arms are secured behind my back, and one of the creatures has a leg hooked around mine. He overextends my knee just enough to inflict pain should I consider bolting.

  “You’ll need these.” She holds out my leopard print robe and fuzzy pink slippers.

  “What the…” Something fastens across my eyes and the world goes black. My mouth is harnessed with a tight fitted cloth.

  This strange violent scene, in the entry of our new home, is likely the last physical impression I’ll have of my mother, and it leaves me wanting to strangle her.

  2

  Rush

  After a lengthy drive, which I spent rolling around in a trunk, I’m led on a long walk through the cold morning air. I’m almost sure it’s morning. My eyes are wide open beneath the cloth strapped across my face, as a film of murky light filters in.

  Finally my bare feet land on tiled floor, smooth and cold as a glacier. The acoustics change, and I can hear the echo of my erratic breathing. In a fit of adrenaline I loosen the bindings around my wrists. Like an explosion I grab the Fem whose body has been pressed against mine and claw and spike at it over and over.

  A choir of screams ignite all around me as I continue to thrash wildly. The Fem feels so human—soft body, lanky arms, a tangle of thick hair that I easily grab onto.

  “Do something!” I hear her scream.

  The bandana around my eyes dislodges exposing a very distressed Michelle Miller. Her dark hair is arranged like a bird’s nest, and a gash of three bloody lines runs across the breadth of her left cheek.

  It’s just the bitch squad.

  A quivering sigh escapes me.

  I’m not being held captive by rabid evil Fems. I’m not in some underground layer with a crazed celestial lunatic ready to drain the lifeblood out of me or force me to procreate with some genetically power hungry Count. I’m in a locker room watching Michelle smear blood across her face with the back of her arm.

  My hands are quickly restrained from behind, this time with duct tape. Emily Morgan steps in front of me and opens the door to a storage closet. It takes a minute for me to register that the gym I’m standing in, judging by the row of upright urinals doesn’t belong to the girls.

  “Oh crap,” I mutter.

  Lexy jumps over to Michelle after she finishes cutting off the blood supply to my hands.

  “Too tight,” I groan. It’s stupid to expect mercy from the bitch squad. That’s about as rational as taking a walk across the ceiling.

  “Oh.” Emily places her hand over her mouth in a fit of sarcasm. “Maybe your arms will fall off.” She gives a swift blow to my stomach by way of her foot and propels me backwards into the closet.

  “Welcome to the team.” Sounds like Lexy, but I’m in too much pain to look up. I’ve all but disemboweled Michelle. I should have eviscerated the three of them when I had the chance.

  Something soft lands on me followed by two sharp darts speared at my head, my robe and fuzzy slippers.

  The door slams with a certain finality, followed by the push of an object being shoved hard in front of it.

  I put in a halfhearted effort to break free. It’s so still, so quiet outside the door.

  I don’t think they’re here anymore.

  I’ll have to rely on a band of naked boys to get me out of here.

  ***

  I spill onto the floor, awakened by an unsuspecting janitor. Blinking into the gym I see a bustle of flesh-toned blurs running around with white towels secured at the waist. A burly man with a handlebar mustache yanks me to my feet and begins escorting me outside. I try to avoid looking anywhere but the floor until I clear the threshold of the gym.

  “Damn hazing.” The disgruntled janitor swipes a blade through the duct-tape around my wrists before disappearing.

  I can’t believe this. Here I am on the first freaking day of school in my robe and fuzzy slippers and, not to be forgotten, my freaking unshaven legs.

  Crap, crap, and crap!

  Painted on the side of the boy’s gym is an overblown effigy of a three headed snarling dog. Jet black with three viciously opened bright red mouths, yellow glowing eyes. Something about it reminds me of the Fem Logan killed in the forest a few weeks back. Beneath it reads the inscription West Paragon Dawgs.

  “I’m a dog?” The words come out inaudible.

  I don’t bother gripping the outer reaches of logic. Instead, I make a lightning-quick dash for the administration building.

  I plan on making a whole slew of phone calls, including my mother, their mothers—and the police.

  The glass door to the office is held open politely by a boy just leaving. I don’t attempt making eye contact or gauging how shocked he might be to see me running around my worse nightmare right here in the open. I’d take off my robe if I weren’t wearing a see-through tank with no bra and boy shorts that technically qualify as underwear.

  “My name’s Skyla Messenger,” I pant to the woman behind the desk. “I need to call my mom. I was taken against my will this morning.”

  She’s a slender woman, pale as paper. She gives a thin line of a smile.

  “Kidnapped,” she says, almost inaudibly. “You were kidnapped.” She riffles through a small stack of files on her desk and shoves a pink sheet over to me. “Your schedule.” She twist
s her lips in an apathetic smile.

  “I need to get dressed.” Not to mention I don’t have my face on yet, and I’m afraid to catch my reflection in the glass because I don’t even want to see what the hell my hair is doing. “Please, just call my mom.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Skyla, your mother contacted us yesterday and forbid us to do so. All kidnappings need to have at least one parent’s approval. If you have a problem with it take it up with Ms. Richards. She allows such stupid shenanigans.” Her eyes avert to the ceiling.

  “Who’s Ms. Richards?” I glance down at the schedule. Sixth period P.E. Ms. Richards.

  The harsh drill of the bell exudes from the open door behind me.

  “You’ll be late for first.” She cuts a look to the hall and motions for me to scoot.

  My father would have never approved of this. Unfortunately, there seems to be no end to the moronic decisions my mother is capable of making. I wish my father hadn’t died because I’m certain he would have never allowed me to attend the first day of school looking like a leopard print whale.

  A rush of bodies flow in both directions at once. Everyone is polished; the scent of new clothes is heavy in the halls.

  I feel light headed as I step outside the door.

  ***

  In the heated rush to get to class, I’ve somehow become invisible to the bustling student body. Not until the halls start to thin do people stare at me openly—slap one another to attention and point.

  That’s when I see him—Logan. He looks perfect in his jeans and crisp white t-shirt, a navy backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes round out in horror when he first takes me in—he stops midflight on his way to class.

  “Logan!” I throw my arms around him, breathe his clean scent before I note how rigid his body is, how unmoved he is by my efforts. With his hands glued safely to his jeans, he backs away.

  “Watch where you’re going.” He huffs, but the undercurrent of his expression is one of shock and sadness.

  “Help me,” I beg. I reach over and clasp his hand. I want speak to him telepathically.

  His eyes soften, they plead with me to understand. Not here, Skyla, he says. He removes my hand from his so I can’t hear his thoughts. Logan is staunch about us not being seen together in public. He reviewed the rules over the phone last night—ten different ways. No physical contact, no polite exchanges, if he walks down the hall I should look the other way and likewise. He’s persona non grata to me. All that’s great, in theory and all, since it’s going to take the target off our backs, with the tiny exception of I can’t act one way when I feel another. I’m completely in love with him.

  The bell rings a slow shrill cry, lets all of my anguish out in a way I never could.

  Logan turns and walks away like he never knew me.

  3

  Screwed

  First period, English with Mr. Montgomery. I tuck the schedule into my pocket before opening the door. The teacher, a tall man with a wreath of grey hair, busies himself writing on the board. All eyes have magnetized in my direction, wide blank stares, opened mouths, a low filtering titter of laughter circles the room. I see Gage near the back motioning towards an empty seat in front of him.

  I swoop across the room with accelerated efficiency. I don’t recognize any of the other faces, just Gage, my new boyfriend per Logan’s list of rules.

  “You look good,” he whispers. His dark glossy hair is combed back in neat waves. His cobalt eyes attest to the fact he’s telling the truth. Gage would think I looked good if I walked in with mud on my face and curlers. It’s a cute love induced physical blindness he seems to come down with whenever I’m around.

  “I have something for you,” he says.

  “Like clothes?” I’m slightly intrigued.

  “No, like jewelry.”

  Gage holds out a thick class ring with embossed lettering. A red stone sits in the middle like a bulbous drop of blood.

  He hands it over and I examine it, feel the heft of the shiny chunk of silver.

  “I always thought when I had a girlfriend I’d give her my ring. You know…” He shrugs off the later part of his sentence.

  “So you could claim her?”

  His dimples ignite, but no smile. Gage is immaculate looking. Any girl would be lucky to have him, except me. I’m more of a Logan girl myself. My heart sinks at the thought of our little game of keep away. Logan and I are both Celestra, both prime targets for the Countenance, a faction of wicked angels that have no problem capturing me for my genetic material. That’s all I am to them, a glorified science experiment—a host that creates the blood they need to fill their precious vials.

  My lips twist as I gaze into the ring. “You’re not very romantic, you know that?” A fact he’s clearly demonstrated.

  “Here.” He passes me a notebook and a pen.

  “Great. I can write my wedding vows—we’re practically linked for eternity.”

  He pulls a face. Gage is a Levatio; he has the gift of knowing and he’s convinced himself we’re going to get married. And well, he’s sort of convinced me too—which sucks because I think that might be taking the whole stay away from Logan in public thing a bit too far.

  “You know what I love?” Gage leans in.

  “What?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

  “How easy this is going to be for me.”

  I turn back around. He’s acclimating way too fast to Logan’s plan. Anybody who agrees to play the part of boyfriend to help out his cousin is a bit demented in the first place. Gage has a lust-driven screw loose and this thrown together relationship is only going to feed his stalker-like tendencies.

  I unclasp the necklace Logan gave me a few weeks ago from around my neck and thread Gage’s ring onto it. I hope it catches Logan’s eye at some point today. I hope he chokes on the reality of seeing me with Gage. I think I could love Gage if I tried, and that scares me far more than an entire faction of wayward angels.

  ***

  Ellis Harrison, a stoner known from parties and parties past, follows Gage and me over to a table at nutrition with his permanent half-closed eyes and plants himself next to Brielle my neighbor slash newfound best friend. My family moved to Paragon Island this past summer, but I swear it feels like I’ve been here for years—centuries maybe.

  “I am so sooo sorry!” Brielle offers a jostling hug. She is way too jubilant to be sorry. I’m pretty comfortable marinating in all this anger, and I’m still not entirely convinced this day isn’t one long nightmare.

  “You are so going to pay if you knew anything about this.” I say it slowly and mean every word.

  “I knew nothing. Besides, you look fabulous.” She exaggerates the last word. “Where’s Logan?” She pans the vicinity.

  She knows nothing about that either.

  “Around.”

  “You guys fight?” Her face blanches out. Brielle has impeccable bone structure and apple green eyes. If we weren’t on some God-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere I’d swear she could be a model. And yet with all that super-human beauty she chooses to date my step-moron, Drake.

  He comes up behind her and gives her left boob a squeeze.

  “Oh gross.” I go over and sit down next to Gage, sliding his ring back and forth on my necklace like a zip line.

  “Looks good.” Gage’s eyes have a way of smiling for him.

  “Guess you peed your circle,” I say, twisting the ring with my fingers. “How many girls have worn this?”

  “No one. I’m giving this to you Skyla. I’d like for you to have it.” His eyes widen a bit apprehensively.

  He looks genuine, like he’s stepped outside of the realm of our agreement and it endears him to me.

  A soft rumble of laughter emits from his throat as he pushes his shoulder into mine. He waits until Ellis walks over to a group of passing girls before leaning in.

  “There’s a party Friday night.”

  “Where?” Not that I’m completely a
pprised of the who’s who here on Paragon— I’m still trying to make my way around the island.

  “Ellis’ house.” He ticks his head in his direction. Figures—it’s sort of his department. “You’re going to have a fight. It’s gonna get ugly.” A look of genuine sadness sweeps across his face.

  “Who am I going to fight with?” Obviously Michelle. I still have her flesh underneath my fingernails—of course she wants revenge.

  “Logan.” He gives his name in one quick whisper.

  My head pulls back an inch.

  “I’m not fighting with Logan.” This reeks of stupid. “I thought you were telling me something about my future.” I inform him. Not some stupid concoction Logan dreamt up to stick a fork in our public super couple status.

  “I am.” A grim smile appears. “Plus he wants to.”

  “So he ran this all by you? You have a play by play on how it’s all going down? The two of you map it out on a spreadsheet all night long?”

  “Skyla, this is serious. It’s like you’re not getting it.”

  “And then what? I run to you from across the room and beg you to save me from big bad, Logan? Is that the part where I massage your tonsils with my tongue?”

  He blinks into me, just staring.

  “You’re welcome to do that anytime.” He gives a wry smile. “But no, I take you home. Then, at the next party we can orally examine our nonessential organs or wrestle in front of the masses, either or—both if you want.”

  I’m starting to wonder if Logan really wants me. There’s no way he could feel about me as intensely as I do about him and agree to something like this. It would kill me to see him with anyone else.

  As if on cue, the bell rings and Logan struts by, moving in rhythm with a beautiful blonde who chats him up on the side.