Wicked

by Addison Moore

  “It looks fake. Like something you’d see in the arcade.”

  “I assure you it’s very much real.” His eyes widen then retract. “Skyla,” he says pleading, “let me do this alone. Stay here or let me take you home.”

  “No.” Nicodemus something or other was one of the names of faction leaders who cleared the way for the death of a Celestra. “Might I remind you, while the faction leaders banded together and decided they were fine with the Celestra deaths that occurred en mass, I wasn’t.”

  “It’s going to get ugly,” he warns. “Stay here. I’ll get you when I’m through.”

  “There’s no way I’m leaving you,” I hiss.

  He takes me by the hand and doesn’t debate the issue. Instead he leads me towards a brick building, and we ascend a stairwell off the back. We float up the stairs like ghosts, without one sound, or one breath that could possibly give us away.

  A triangular window affords us a peek inside a well-lit room. A small circle of eight to ten men sit knit together passing papers back and forth.

  Logan presses his back against the wall. I can feel his warm breath as he pants unsteady.

  There is no one else I would do this for. Not one soul on the planet. I love you, Skyla. He pushes his lips to my cheek with a fiery passion as though he were kissing me for the very last time.

  Logan storms into the room.

  I don’t hear questions, or voices, just rapid-fire explosions stemming from his hands.

  Logan rushes out. Over his shoulder, I see blood splattered up against the walls as a horrible groan emits from deep inside the room.

  Then we disappear.

  ***

  An evening in Sri Lanka stirs of exotic breezes—spices with names I can’t pronounce and saffron colored robes that filter through the streets. I pull in close to Logan. I miss home, Gage, and the old Skyla and Logan who didn’t run around the world offing people with bullets.

  You killed too many, I say.

  They’re planning to annihilate the remaining Celestra. He raises his chin into the night and takes a deep breath.

  You know this? I ask.

  Logan, who has always been steeped in mystery, seems to know a little too much about everything.

  He nods. The Counts are getting ready to graft me in as one of their own.

  And you think this is a good idea because? I already know what he’s going to say.

  I do and so does your father. Logan pushes me in with a tight embrace.

  “My dad?” I pull back and ask out loud.

  “Yes,” he circles into a nod. “He’s a great guy, he’s been mentoring me.”

  “What?” I have to agree with him about my dad being great, but mentoring Logan?

  “So he thinks infiltrating the Counts is a brilliant idea? How do I know you’re not playing both me and my dad? How do I know you’re not Demetri Edinger in disguise?” God, I’ve never even entertained the idea. Talk about coming out of left field.

  Logan recoils at the thought.

  “Come on,” he whispers, leading us through a seaside villa that glows a soft vanilla.

  How are we hitting these faction meetings at the right time? I ask out of curiosity. Logan is obviously and undeniably in the know.

  The Counts hold New Moon festivals. The leaders have a meeting beforehand to officiate it. We’re traveling back further and further into the evening, so by the time they realize what’s happened, it’ll be too late to stop us. Logan pulls his cheek back with pride.

  Can’t they go back and meet up with us? I’m no genius, but if they can, we could be walking into a bloodbath.

  They’d need a treble to pull that off, and they’d need a supervising spirit to give them one.

  Why does that sound familiar? Oh that’s right, my dad talked about it. What exactly is a supervising spirit? More crap I don’t know. Great. Aren’t I locked in a treble with freaking Ellis? And what supervising spirit approves of pot laced light drives?

  A Sector, Fem, he glances over me with reservation, a Caelestis, or another higher order.

  Chloe traveled into the future to slit my throat. That means she must have one.

  That means she has one for sure. Logan nods into this before pausing at the door.

  I take in a deep breath as we head towards the entrance.

  Logan dives in and shoots up the room in a series of explosions.

  He ejects himself and lands on top of me, his lips hitting mine hot and wet as we quiver back to another time.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Rome if You Want To

  It happened again in England. The hint of a sickle shaped moon beared witness to the carnage of Logan’s wrath. I stand nearby, afraid, watchful of what the beautiful blonde boy that lies buried in my heart is capable of. All along I thought trust was the issue with Logan, now I wonder if the problem was sanity and his seemingly short supply.

  Logan is exterminating Counts at record pace—their blood on his hands. In mere hours, he’s transformed himself into a perfunctory killing machine. Nothing will ever be the same after this night. And it makes me wonder if this night is our last of peace.

  “You don’t have to worry about killing them,” Logan says changing out his clip, “They’re less human than you think they are.”

  I think of Ellis and suddenly doubt that.

  “Where are we?” I ask, staring at the thick cobbled roads. An entire millennia of foot traffic has worn a slick patina over the walk.

  “Welcome to Rome.” He pulls a kiss off my lips and peels a layer of my soul off with it.

  “Don’t do that,” I say breathless. “I’m with Gage.”

  Logan swallows hard as though he had forgotten, or at least hoped that I did. I can feel the drought of our love emanating from him in this fractured moment of time.

  “I’m sorry.” He leads me by the hand up towards an intersection, then I see it— grand and pious. It eats up the night in one monolithic fit of glory. The Colosseum.

  “In there?” I ask.

  “No. In there.” He points to a building across the street from the ancient structure. We take a seat on a nearby bench so we can take in all of the beauty of what lies in front of us. “I wish it were under different circumstances.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder. It feels genuinely platonic, so I leave it there.

  “I wish everything was under different circumstances. Especially the fact Chloe managed to worm her way back to life.” I hate that the entire Chloe debacle happened because she played off my stupidity.

  “Loyalty,” he corrects. “Chloe redefines manipulative. She’s a harmless looking spark that can turn a forest to cinder with her pinky.”

  “You got that right,” I say. She charred the landscape of my world the instant she showed up at the party.

  “So, you wanna tell me about what happened that day you took down half the student body and ran into Pierce?” Three deep lines crease just under his left eye as he gives a gentle smile. It feels as though I’m here with a much older man. I like this aged version of Logan. Something about him curbs my anger, erases some of the hurt caused by the teenage version.

  “I thought we took down the Countenance. You and me, even Holden was helping. Pierce,” my hand rises involuntarily, “was a friendly face when I saw him.” I shake my head. I was so lost. “Um, Gage, he had the head of an eagle, and Ellis, he had the head of an ox.” My gaze drifts up towards the thousands of stars watching over us in a spectacular blaze.

  “And what kind of face did I have?” He rounds his hand over my knee natural as breathing.

  “You had the face of an ass,” I say politely removing his now roving hand.

  “Figures.” His expression sours. “I would do anything to regain your trust.”

  A swell of emotion envelops us like a membrane. I can’t break free from his steely gaze. It’s so hypnotic, so comfortable to get lost in Logan’s eyes.

  “Is that all you want from me?” My heart jumps in and out of rhythm.<
br />
  “I want everything you’re willing to give me.”

  We exchange an entire season of sorrowful sighs before heading over to a rectangular building with mirrored windows. But it’s the Colosseum that captures my attention. It looks straight out of the pages of a history book, so unearthly old, so foreign, you would think it were some unbelievable movie prop, a cheesy bad replica, but here it is. It stands erect in the night broken and beautiful, lit up like a jewel.

  Logan walks us in through the side of the seemingly docile building. He leads us down a long stairwell that narrows to an opening at an underground level.

  I’m not sure we should be killing people like this. Maybe this one we should let slide? You know let bygones be bygones? I suggest.

  You want to let your father’s killer slide? I can guarantee more Celestra deaths. What we’re doing is going to save lives. He pauses tenderly examining me in the stale thread of light.

  I pull him further along, not wanting to get caught up in the moment. If anyone would have told me months ago I’d be going to Rome with Logan one day, I would have envisioned a far off honeymoon. I would have had stars in my eyes over sharing something so special with him. Bullets and blood, and racking up a body count would have been nowhere near the list of things I expected.

  “Honeymoon?” He pulls me in, enamored by the thought. “I’ll remember that.”

  I’m not sure if he means because it’s a nice thought or because he thinks it’s still an option, either way it was a fleeting fantasy, and that’s all it’ll ever be.

  “Skyla.” My name depresses from his lungs lower than a whisper. He closes his eyes, and a seam of tears ignites over his lashes.

  Then he galvanizes. Something fires him up like an engine. He roars to life and charges us down a football field worth of corridors. Voices emit freely from an opening to our left, and Logan jumps inside, all hellfire and fury, then a strange eerie silence.

  A hand reaches out and pulls me inside.

  “Logan!” It speeds out of me in a panic.

  Logan’s hands are restrained behind his back, his lips bound with duck tape.

  Looks like they found their treble.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Gone Wrong

  Four well built men, surround us like a garrison. I’m assuming they’re all Counts and they’ve somehow become aware of the fact that new moon faction councils are turning into a hell of a lot of bloody fun for a couple of young Celestra—well, one Celestra anyway. For the record, I’m not having any freaking fun.

  They push Logan into me hard, and we smack into the wall behind us.

  Don’t move. Logan rubs the side of his face up against mine, our twin scars meet for the very first time. It feels intimate, passionate, and the armed thugs waiting to pump some serious metal into us are the morbid witnesses to our necrotic brand of love.

  We have to fight. Remember what I taught you? He moans in order to stall.

  Yes. Sweeping out their feet, the chokehold, wrestle them to ground, and break their arms—the ball buster.

  That’s the one. Logan bends over and hikes his leg up behind him in the air at record speed. My brain registers this as though it were all happening in slow motion. He knocks down two of the men to his right with his ballerina-ninja-like move producing a shower of teeth and blood.

  All four men rush him. They catapult on top of him with their bodies as though they were dousing a fire.

  I try to harness my strength by way of anger. I think of Chloe and the way she’s bound me with her knowledge. The way she stole Gage right from under me, and now I’m powerless against her emotional bondage. She could blackmail Gage all the way to altar if she wanted. Maybe Gage’s vision of me marrying him doesn’t even take place until we’re all senior citizens—or worse he’s confused me with Chloe.

  I pluck two of the men off Logan and toss them behind me with unnatural ease. Logan loosens up enough to kick his way up off the floor—grunting, panting—nothing but a tangle of questionable limbs. The first two return and restrain my arms leaving my legs in prime position to kick one square in the nuts, so I do.

  He lets out a horrific oof. Back home, it would have probably sounded more like an ugh, or a ooh, but it’s funny how even amidst great pain the recipient of my punishment remains true to his foreign roots.

  Why is everything so quiet? Why is everyone looking at me like I’ve just committed the most heinous atrocity? Oh right, they’ve all got a pair—

  I turn and knee the man to my left, then the one to my right. It happens so fast, almost simultaneously. It’s as though I had psychologically immobilized them, and now they’re all victims to the bionic groin throbs I’ve doled out.

  A lone man struggles with Logan. He sees me fast approaching and runs out the door.

  Logan pulls out his pistol and points it down at the three men writhing in pain. Logan is doing this for me. I’ve encased his heart in permafrost and reduced him to nothing more than an executioner.

  “No,” I say placing my hand over his. “We’re leaving.”

  ***

  We return to the butterfly room. It feels so good to be back to my normal life as I take in the colorful specks lining the walls. I lie down and soak in the peace and beauty of the butterflies as they watch over us with hushed appraisal.

  “I’m sorry if it was too much for you,” Logan lands on his stomach next to me.

  “It was my idea.” I never said I had any good ones. “What’s going to happen next?”

  “They’ll find a way to make us pay for this.” His face offers no apologies whatsoever. “You were right though, it was necessary.”

  I reach up and run my fingers through his hair. It’s courser than I remember. So is Logan.

  “Do you know this because—”

  He cuts me off, “My conversion? Yes.” He adjusts himself onto his elbows. “Trust me, what we did tonight was a public service.”

  “I do,” I breathe the words.

  His face angles towards me, and he gives a humble smile for the first time in a long while.

  “You do?” There’s a boyish quality about him when he says it.

  I lean up and circle him by the waist in an awkward embrace that’s neither platonic, nor romantic.

  “Yes, Logan, I do.”

  ***

  Gage texts me in the morning and offers a ride to church. Not only is he going to look great to my mother, but I get to spend the whole entire day with Gage.

  I head downstairs and find Tad and Mom hunched over a stack of papers at the kitchen table.

  “Watcha looking at?” I ask, pouring myself a bowl of cereal and hopping next to Drake at the bar.

  “Well, look who’s up?” My mother beams at me as though I were eight. “Are you feeling better?”

  “I feel fine.” Truth is I’m wrecked both physically and emotionally, but globetrotting and murder will do that to you.

  “So what’s with the forest worth of paperwork?” I reiterate. Probably renewing their membership to Counts International.

  Mom and Tad exchange glances.

  “If you must know…” Tad is clearly irritated with the inquisition.

  Wow. I should reward myself for riling him up at this early hour. Then again, it seems right on schedule for me.

  “Your mother and I,” he continues, “are getting ready to visit a fertility clinic in Seattle.”

  “State of the art facility.” Mom leans in confidentially.

  Sorry I asked. I think I would rather they were renewing their memberships to the slaughter Skyla committee—just about anywhere other than a freaking fertility clinic.

  “So,” Tad continues, “looks like we’ll be using any monies that might have been allocated for your college educations and pilfering them in an attempt to bring forth yet another child into this world we’re ill equip to provide for.”

  Drake scoffs as he inhales his last spoonful.

  “Your father’s teasing,” Mom insists. “He wa
nts this child as much as I do, if not more. I’m secretly hoping for twins.”

  “Twins?” Tad balks.

  Two Tad juniors? I’m just as shocked as Tad at the idea.

  “Relax. It’s very common to have five or six embryos take when undergoing this procedure.”

  “Five or six?” His face lights up a strange shade of purple.

  “Well, we wouldn’t have to do any of this if you were able to hold up your end of the bargain.” She eyes him below the waist.

  I guess Tad’s not the sperminator after all, looks like Drake holds that title—the sperminator—the impregnator—same difference.

  Drake drops his spoon on the way to the sink and bends over to pick it up. His shirt rises midway up his back exposing a sea of navy ink, and Emily’s signature scrawled out in huge flowery letters.

  Oh. My. God.

  I abandon my cereal and follow Drake upstairs.

  Chapter Forty

  Ink

  “Where the heck you going?” Drake asks as I file past him into his bedroom.

  “Let me see your tattoo.” I’m giddy over the idea he’s inked up his back. I’m pretty sure it will piss Tad off spectacularly and put a fifty-dollar bill right in my pocket. That could be the first payment for my new car. Heck, I could finance the car and insurance on Drake’s bad behavior alone. I should get a bonus of like a thousand dollars for the fact he knocked up Brielle. Only, that’s probably the one thing I’ll never tell.

  “I don’t have a tattoo. So get the hell out.”

  “Irritable much? I’m talking about the Sharpie chicken scratch on your back.”

  “Oh that.” He takes off his shirt, exposing a thick tangle of underarm hairs that make me rethink breakfast and perhaps every other meal of the day.

  “Check it out.” He turns around.

  The images stare out at me, and I let out a little shriek.

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Holy freaking shit!”

  “I know, right?”