“How can you be sure?”
“Candace. She told me everything I needed to know about this place.” He takes a deep breath. “After my stunt with Dudley a few months ago, I ended up on her back porch so to speak. I asked for directions to the ever-invisible Ichabod, and she spat in my palms until this place showed up in a vision. She’s the one who mentioned it.”
“He’s getting out of his chair.” I smack Logan in the arm as we flatten ourselves against the wall—a ridiculous notion for me altogether. “He’s leaving!”
“Even better—he’s headed to the restroom. Stay here.” Logan starts to trek in after Ichabod, and I follow.
Two men stand at the urinal pissing their poor little hearts out, and for one of them, this will be his last night of urinal pissing freedom.
The one to the left staggers as he begins to sing and shout.
“He’s wasted.” Logan heads over to the redshirt freshman we’re about to send to Haunted Speculum U and lifts the spirit sword to his neck as it illuminates a bright electric blue.
This reminds me of a time in our past that I’d just as soon forget with all the heartache and pain it ended up costing the two of us. Ah, the old days. Suddenly, I’m serendipitous for those worldwide murderous sprees Logan and I partook in. Only this time we’re not sending anyone to paradise. Nope, those one-way tickets will have to wait until—
Before I know it, Logan is in a chokehold, and Ichabod Travers has his knee buried deep in my dearly departed husband’s back, shouting something in Spanish.
Dammit. Why did I have to go and get a D in Spanish? Why?
“Get off him right now, or I’ll stick your head in the toilet and—I will flush!” Really? That’s the best I’ve got?
Logan struggles to look up with an expression that suggest the same, but Ichabod laughs, a deep guttural gurgle that lets me know he’s undeniably amused.
“First, I kill your boyfriend, then we dance.” He hacks the words out as if they were a joke—as if Logan and I were a joke. “Maybe baby fall out of your belly?” He gives a greasy smile, showing off a perfect picket fence smile.
“First, you kill my boyfriend? I don’t think so.” I summons all my Celestra reserves, and before I know it, my Fem-ininity kicks into high gear as well. This sleazy asshole doesn’t stand a chance. Nobody but nobody threatens to make my babies fall out of my belly, although, technically, my back would feel tons better.
My foot imprints into his face so hard his entire body blows back into the wall, his head hitting the urinal for bonus points. He staggers on his knees, his face a bloody mess, but I’m not too worried because everyone knows a head wound always looks way worse than it actually is. He swoops forward, almost snatching me by the ankle, and again my mama bear instincts kick in. He could have landed me flat on my ass. He could have jostled the unborn children in my womb, and for once, they’re napping and I’d like to keep it that way. I’ve grown accustomed to the wrestling match they like to play out at least ten hours a day.
Logan tries to storm him with the spirit sword and manages to jab him in the neck.
“Let me get another good one in.” I pull my foot back.
“Skyla, no!”
No sooner does my boot meet up with his face than Ichabod goes limp once again, only this time I hear a distinct crack and a thud. It takes a moment for me to remove my foot from…oh my shit—his skull! Ichabod’s handsome face is suddenly replaced with a very nasty looking, bloody as all hell, hole.
Logan scoops me into his arms and runs me the heck out of there, dissolving us back to Paragon, into his dreamscape where I’m suddenly stark naked again, only this time it’s Logan holding me tight. “Sorry, but I have a strict no blood and brains policy to adhere to.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’m sending you home. Forget about tonight. It was all just a bad dream.”
I wake up with a start in my own bed. Logan’s arms replaced by that of my husband’s—an orgasm the last thing on my mind.
Ichabod Travers is dead.
Looks like I’ve got blood on my hands after all.
On September thirteenth, the exact day of my one-year anniversary with Gage, I shower and make a gallant, yet impossible, effort to shave my legs. Upon aborting the mission and tugging on my robe, I waddle into Mia’s room and do the only thing I can—ask for assistance.
“Sorry,” I say, handing her the razor. “Gage is out running an errand, and I can only guess that it has something to do with me.”
“No problem!” Mia gets right to work preparing the workspace with a towel, a glass of water, and a can of shaving gel designed specifically for our species. It says so right on the little pink label.
“That’s disgusting. Can’t you do this someplace else?” Melissa chirps.
I choose to ignore her and wave at Emerson instead. She’s been a great little ol’ owl and doesn’t seem to mind a bit that Mia refuses to douse her in toxic dyes each month to gift her a touch-up. So for now, her feathers are sort of a salt and pepper color. It’s a look I think really works for her.
Mia hums as she pulls the razor along my calves, inspiring Emerson to gawk at the two of us with curiosity.
“I’m having a baby,” I mouth to my feathered friend as I point to my belly.
She rolls her eyes, technically her entire head, and takes a few side steps in the opposite direction.
Mia pulls the razor in long slim tracks over my calves and Melissa pretends to retch.
“You know what’s really disgusting?” Mia drags the words out as if relishing what comes next. “The fact Marco DeMiro told everyone you swallow. And really, ’Lissa? Describing it to Jackie P. as warm pudding?” She sticks her finger down her throat. “Gag me.”
Gag me. God, I hope none of that is true, and yet, a very sullen part of me is afraid it might be. Melissa is panning out to be quite the little whore.
A stuffed rabbit bullets by like a missile. “Oh, I will gag you—in your sleep.” Melissa pelts Mia with an entire barrage of stuffed animals. “Believe me, it will be my pleasure. I suppose you’ll want to run off and tell your little boyfriend.”
“Which one?” Mia muses without looking up.
And really, Melissa? I want to say. Swallowing is something not even I can do without testing out the dependability of my hypersensitive gag reflex. Who knew all those times I told Gage ‘I want to drink you down like a tall glass of water’ I was essentially teasing him with a vaguely suggestive, utterly disgusting—sorry, not sorry—promise that I couldn’t quite keep. At least it’s not for the lack of trying. If I had succeeded each and every time, I would have drunk a bucketful by now.
A roll of nausea passes through me at the thought, and I moan.
“Eww sick!” Melissa cries. “Get the fuck out if you’re going to puke in my room.”
“No, I’m fine, I swear. And you should really do something about that mouth of yours. It’s not a trashcan, Melissa.” I meant with the cursing, but hey, if the warm pudding fits.
“Anyway”—Mia gives my leg a little massage before patting it down with a towel—“I’m seeing Revelyn tonight. I think he’s going to ask me to break it off with Gabe, but I don’t know. I kind of like having two men warring over me. I’m kind of like you in that respect.” She looks up at me with her large puppy dog eyes, and suddenly, I want to cry because I’ve been such a poor example to her—to both of my sisters.
“You’re too young to have two guys warring after you. And, for the love of all that is holy, do not put your mouth on anything that might ejaculate something with the weak promise of a comfort food. Your sister is lying.”
“I’m the same age you were when we came to Paragon,” she protests. “I’m in the tenth grade. That’s when you amassed your male harem, remember?”
“No, God, I was a junior.” I was a junior, wasn’t I? “And I didn’t amass a harem. I met two really nice guys. Logan was my boyfriend, and we broke it off, and then I was with Gage, still am.” Something like t
hat. God, it all seems so long ago, and yet, it went by in a blink. The babies jostle, and I land my hand over them as if trying to catch a knee or an elbow in the process.
“And don’t forget that math teacher.” Melissa pumps her foot though the air, and my mind flits back to poor Ichabod’s brain, or more to the point, mush for brains. A chill runs through me at the thought I might have actually given the poor guy an inadvertent lobotomy. I know I did, but a part of me doesn’t want to believe it. How could I do that? How could I do that while my unborn children kicked alive inside me? It’s atrocious behavior. I’m a terrorist to my own people. It’s a terrible, terrible thing I’ve done.
“Hello? Skyla?” Mia waves the razor over my face. “I asked for your opinion. What do you think I should do? Should I leave Gabe for Rev?”
“No, you should leave Gabe and Rev. Find someone who won’t run around with two other girls behind your back.”
“Ha!” Melissa croaks. “Even Skyla knows they’re both cheating on you.”
“Technically, I’m the cheat.” She waggles her bows and hands me back my razor.
“That’s nothing to be proud of.” I jump off the bed and make my way to the door just as Emerson squawks up a storm. “All right. Come here.” I pull her out of her cage, and she leaps to my shoulder. “I’ll let you see your brother. Just please don’t take a crap in my room.”
The windows rattle. The fog presses against the glass with strained fingers as if readying to burst inside. Brielle called the phenomenon a mist storm. Drake suggested it was simply some fucked-up fog. I suppose the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Paragon is prone to its fair share of crazy hazy days, but today, this white coat of armor Paragon has pulled over herself—that has all but made the island disappear—is the most dramatic of them all.
“It’s a white out,” I whisper to Gage as we stare out the bedroom window. “I went to Bree’s place and almost landed on my head. It’s disorienting. You don’t know which way is which. I swear, I almost ended up at the bowling alley.”
“Skyla,” he moans directly into my ear, and I melt. Gage has made mindboggling love to me for the last few hours. As soon as he came home, he helped me hoist myself up the stairs and shed my clothes, lashing me with his tongue while my body all but begged for his. To say I’ve been a little hungry for his touch these last few months is like saying Chloe is a little bit dangerous. Wait—no Chloe references allowed while discussing my voracious sexual appetite for my husband—especially not on this, our very first anniversary.
He pulls back and gives me a stern, slightly stoned with lust, look. “Do not put yourself or the babies in danger,” he chastises between kisses. “If it’s crappy outside, don’t bother going in that direction. I promise, I will meet all of your needs.” He dots the tip of my nose with his tender lips. “Bree would have come to you with a simple text. Stay inside where it’s safe, Skyla.”
“Wow, that sounds like an order.” I lift my shoulder playfully. “You know how I like it when you shout orders.”
He moans out a smile, his dimples igniting as he takes a bite from my neck. “I’ve got an order—fuck me.” He does a double take at his phone and picks it up, checking the time. “On second thought, hold off until we get back.”
“Get back from where?”
“We might be taking a quick little trip.” He winces again as if it’s not the greatest idea.
“It’s too late for a trip.” I press my bare chest against his arm. I know for a fact Gage is defenseless against the superpowers of my newly enhanced bust line. I’ve tripled in volume, if not quadrupled. My nipples are the size of dinner plates—not necessarily a good thing, but Gage doesn’t seem to mind. All the more room to bury those oh-so-happy-to-see-me dimples. So far, this pregnancy has managed to take our sex life to a whole new level with the one tiny detail that actually has only cropped up as of late. I’m officially Gage’s number one backdoor girl, a formal title he bestowed upon me last week when he decided there was no other position available to us while my stomach does its best rendition of a beach ball.
Honestly, I cannot get much bigger than this. My skin is stretched so taut it’s purple. I’ve amassed an entire slew of stretch marks that closely resemble enormous blue lightning bolts scattered over my hips and thighs. My stomach looks as if it’s cracking apart in the underlayers. My inny has since become an obnoxiously protruding outty, and there’s an eerie dark line that runs vertically from the top of my belly to my pubic line. I can officially no longer see my feet, and good thing because last I remember they were soft swollen pillows filled with salty regret. Have I mentioned I’m breaking out like a thirteen-year-old going to her first school dance, and that my bones hurt so bad I wished they’d turn to powder already? My pelvis literally feels as if someone is trying to pry it apart with a crowbar. This entire bodily experience has been just a smidge on the hellish side.
The babies give a few kicks and nudges—and ironically, it suddenly feels like heaven. This sort of psychotic flip-flopping is precisely why I’ve been so erratic. A bonus to having the babies will be having my sanity back. Brielle swore up and down as soon I pump these puppies out, I’ll be right back to my old self, dress size and all. She’s even encouraged me to bring something sexy to wear home from the hospital like a miniskirt and a crop top.
“Tonight’s the night.” He gives a slight shrug. When I don’t say anything—because, for one, it’s not registering—he gently assists me off the bed. “I’ll help you get dressed.”
Demetri’s face blinks through my mind. “Oh God, the nuptials? Do we have to renew our vows today of all days?”
Gage gives a hearty laugh. “It would make sense.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, tugging down one of the many quasi-slutty maternity clothes Bree has gifted me over the last few weeks. My wardrobe has become her little pet project. And as a natural recourse to my clothing dilemma, she’s developed a whole new baby and me line that ties into the Made in Paragon brand. I must admit, both Gage and I get a kick out of the nightshirt that says Made in Paragon with an arrow pointing to my overgrown belly. But so far, that’s the only hit. Everything else is a little too tight, too see-through, too bedazzled to be anywhere near a pregnant ogre of my size.
For today’s fashion disaster, Gage has selected a white tissue weight dress that hugs my generous, ample hips and accentuates the fact I’ll be able to breastfeed the entire Western half of the island by Christmas.
“You can see my bra,” I muse as I study the newly formed shelf just beneath my chin.
“I like your bra.” He pulls one of my caplets from the closet—not that I have many. Capes and their caplet micro counterparts are the things that villains are made of. Just the fact I’m running low on the furry little shrugs assures me I’m on the right side of the Celestial law.
“Wow! I haven’t seen this since homecoming a bazillion years ago, and as fate would have it that night, I forgot it.”
He wraps the furry white stole around my shoulders, and with the white dress, I sort of do look like a bride.
“I should dress like a nun for Halloween.” I take in my beautiful disfigurement.
“I was thinking more like Little Red Riding Hood, and I could be the big bad wolf.”
“Oh?” I curl my fingers around his shirt as he pulls and tugs himself into a suit until he deems himself acceptable. “Why do I sense a little bestiality on board for that horrible haunted night?”
“Because there will be.” He dots my lips with a kiss. “You bring out the beast in me,” he says it sad, forlorn, as if he really were that mythical creature. “Will you take us there?”
“It depends. I refuse to get married in Demetri’s Fem trophy room.”
He shakes his head. “It’s worse than that, but first, if you don’t mind, I promised him we’d bring a guest.”
The Transfer on a normal unassuming day is bleak and dreary, but on this day—night, actually, or better yet, eerie combination of bot
h as it stands—the Transfer is alive, festive, adorned with dusty, dirty roses that look as if they were ripped straight out of a casket. Translucent bodies shuffle about in a whirling swirling tornado, all of them yipping about, yammering on and on about the wedding! I feel like I’m trapped in some horrible demonic version of Alice in Wonderland, where instead of frantic bunnies and Cheshire cats, I’m met with ghosts with serious fashion hang-ups strictly tied to the seventeenth century—large hoop skirts, bonnets and parasols, men with curled mustaches and funny looking suits. Every day is dapper day in the Transfer.
“Lizbeth!” Demetri welcomes my mother with open arms.
It was an odd invitation to begin with, but not altogether shocking. Demetri extending an invite to his baby mama is status quo as far as the demonic oaf goes. But, of course, it wasn’t Demetri who actually extended the invitation. It was me. And it went something like this, “Mom, guess what? I’m getting married again, and this time you can totally come!”
“Oh, great, honey! Where will the blessed event take place?”
“Why, hell, of course!”
Technically, the Transfer isn’t hell per se. That would be Tenebrous—ha! Nephilim humor at its finest. I slay me. Actually, that’s not Hades either, just a couple of close seconds and thirds.
“Can you believe this, Skyla?” Mom beams. “I’ve been working for months helping Demetri get ready for a very special wedding he said he was hosting. If I only knew then it was for my very own daughter!” She lets out a raucous squeal. “Demetri is the very best at surprises. He always knows how to make my most special dreams come true.”
I bet he does. I bet she was really surprised—wink, wink—when she suddenly found herself expecting after months of pleading, kneading Tad’s dried up body parts.
Gage leans into him. “What’s with the festivities? I thought you said we’d keep it simple.”
“Ah, yes.” Demetri sinks his head back, his lips readying the lie. “It seems we’ve an unexpected guest list. Once rumors began to circulate, you could say things got a bit out of hand.” He turns to my mother. “Pardon the décor, my love. I’m sure you could have turned this into a five-star spectacular, but the kids insisted we keep things to a minimum.”
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