Celestra Series Books 1-3

by Moore, Addison

  “When they get here, I’ll take Logan upstairs and make him tell me everything. Just start the movie—don’t bother waiting for us. I’ve seen it a thousand times already.”

  “Knew it,” Drake balks. “This ‘innocent get together’ is a rouse for you to get it on with some guy in your bedroom.” He looks rather proud of his misinformed epiphany.

  At least Mom and Tad have already left with the girls in tow, which leaves me free to beat the shit out of Drake should the need arise and God knows it’s arising as we speak.

  The doorbell goes off.

  “Saved by the bell,” I say, speeding past him, “literally.”

  Brielle whisks by and lets them in. Gage strides in with a giant white pizza box, digging his dimples in my direction as if there were romantic implications behind those deep wells. Natalie and Kate come in all smiles and hellos, each offering a hug.

  “I can’t believe they did that to you,” Kate whispers. Actually, I’m not sure which offense she’s referencing. The list seems to grow by the minute.

  Logan holds up the rear. He looks luminescent with a crisp white t-shirt, inky dark jeans—the scent of his cologne offering me a warm embrace before he ever reaches me. Track marks linger in his hair, still damp around the edges from the shower.

  “Hi.” He gives a soft embrace rubbing the skin on the back of my neck with his fingers. I’m innocent I swear. He presses out a sweet smile that I could never convict him with.

  “I believe you.” Something about Logan has the power to render me spellbound in his presence. Even if we didn’t share our gift I would be anyway.

  We gather in the family room where I toss paper plates like Frisbees. Logan doesn’t eat, just stands off to the side with his arms folded across his chest as if he were waiting for his trial.

  “So here’s the DVD,” I say, handing it over to Gage. “If you don’t like it blame Drake.” It’s some cheesy movie from like ten years ago. I point over to the cabinet beneath the TV. “There’s lots more crap where that came from.” That was Tad’s major contribution to the household—a boatload of B movies.

  “You get the comedy channel?” Gage takes the remote and channel surfs while everyone finds a spot and gets comfy.

  “Hey,” I spear a look of feigned surprise over at Logan, “would you like a tour of the house?”

  “Why, yes. Yes I would,” he matches my playful tone.

  “You’re going to miss the movie.” Kate pinches my shorts as I walk by.

  “That’s the point.” Natalie pulls up a toss pillow and hugs it close to her chest. “They’re going to entertain themselves.”

  Gage looks up. His eyes spear through me like a javelin. There’s something searing about that penetrating stare. It makes me want to know all of his secrets and Logan’s combined.

  “We’re just going to talk.” I don’t know why I felt the need to quantify how I spend my time to Gage of all people, but a small part of me wanted to. It’s like he knows me. Like we’re connected in some strange way that I don’t fully understand. There’s so much I don’t know. I plan on shaking all of the answers out of Logan in the next few hours. By the time I go to bed tonight, in the same room he supposedly did Chloe—I’d better know everything.

  “Hey Skyla?” Drake calls out as Logan and I are about to ascend the stairs. “There’s a stack of rubbers in my top drawer. Feel free to grab one. I hear it’s a safe way to talk to people.”

  Freaking moron.

  11

  Truth

  I spent all morning cleaning and hiding the things that seem to multiply and run errant in my bedroom when I’m not looking. My bed is perhaps the neatest it’s been in its entire wicker-framed history. All of my stuffed animals, as embarrassing as it is to admit, are stowed safely beneath my bed.

  I scan the floor for any bras or underwear that may have gone undetected. My clothes are native to the rug in the center of the room, which my mother has lovingly dubbed as the hamper.

  The room itself is nothing special, and for sure nothing pretty with stacks of cardboard boxes lining the periphery. The walls are still a dingy white. One day this summer, I for sure want to paint it a really pretty green.

  “I’ll help.”

  “Help?” I let go of his hand and bounce over to the mattress, patting the spot right next to me.

  “Paint your room.”

  “Are you kidding?” I bury my head in the pillow.

  I was so nervous about having him up here I completely forgot that holding his hand was like inviting him to listen in on my underwear laden monologue.

  “And you hid things pretty well.” He reaches under the bed and yanks up a prize—the stuffed elephant I won at the county fair when I was eleven.

  “Give me that,” I laugh, snatching the animal and hugging it hard across my chest. “Don’t touch him, he’s mine.”

  “So,” he digs his fingers into the hair at the base of my neck, “you want to know why I was at Michelle’s.” It comes out expressionless.

  “It’s none of my business where you go.” I drift my gaze over to the door—wonder if I locked it.

  “I locked it.” He smiles.

  “No reason to,” I say it cold.

  “Michelle has something I want.”

  “I hear most girls do.”

  “Not that. And no, most girls don’t. You do.” He cocks his head to the side with a blatant flirtatious smile. “Michelle has something else. Something nobody else could give me.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Say,” I command.

  “It’s something of Chloe’s.”

  “Who’s going to care?”

  “You’ll care—you may want it.” His brows raise a notch. “And I’m pretty sure I’ll want to give it to you, at least in part.”

  “OK,” a lungful of air expresses through my lips, “anybody ever tell you, you talk in circles?” I reach over and interlace our fingers. I feel so comfortable sitting on my bed with him. It’s strange. “Are you sleeping with Michelle?”

  “No.”

  “Have you slept with Michelle?”

  “Almost, but that was months after Chloe died and I was a head case.”

  “Did you sleep with Chloe in my bedroom?” I shoot the words out with a quick assault.

  Our eyes lock, imprisoning one another in a solemn gaze.

  “Yes.”

  I push back a good six inches toward the headboard. Any comfort I may have felt has dissipated quick as a vapor. A million viral things want to stream from my mouth all at once—every single one an excuse to kick him in the face.

  He doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans back on the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. A soft breath of exasperation blows from his lips.

  “It’s not like you knew me then.” I immediately regret my words. Who am I anyway? I’m just some girl he met. He’s probably known Chloe forever. She was probably the love of his life, and if I start a relationship with him now I’ll always be competing with a memory. “Just tell me about the touch, how we can hear.” All I want from Logan Oliver is for him to spill his deep dark secrets and get the hell out of my bedroom.

  He sits up and scoots over, careful not to touch me.

  “I think we should do this with words.” He touches his lips when he says it.

  “Afraid to let me in much?”

  He shakes his head.

  “More like, afraid to hear you.” He sounds out each word with caution, treading lightly so he won’t get burned. “It happened twice with Chloe and me. It was stupid. Chloe and I…” he shakes his head, “she wasn’t the right person for me.” He picks up my hand. “By the time she disappeared we had already broken up, which put me at the top of the suspect list.”

  Logan is the last person I’d suspect of something like that.

  “Tell me what Michelle has,” I ask.

  “Her diary.”

  “Oh.”

  “She left something in it
for me.” He pulls his lips in a line. “Anyway, when I get it, you can read it if you like.” He takes up my hand.

  I would like that, I say surprising myself with my honesty. What better way to know the girl who once lived in my room?

  He blinks a smile.

  “So what about me? This thing?” I don’t want to talk about Chloe anymore, like ever.

  He rattles my hand in the air and I take it back.

  “This thing. You said your dad did it?”

  “Yes. My mom and sister can’t.”

  “Your dad ever talk about his family? Do you know them?”

  “Just my grandma. She lives in a nursing home back in L.A. My mother left her there to rot.” Harsh, but true.

  “She ever talk about angels?”

  “All the time, but she’s senile. The doctors said it was one of her fixations. It was nonstop angels everyday, all the time.”

  “Well she might not be as senile as everybody thinks. The only other people that share our gift have Nephilim blood in them.”

  “Nephilim?” I pull back to get a better look at him.

  “Angels who chose their lust for women over their desire to remain on the frontlines for God. They came down and started families as if they were human.”

  “Are you saying I’m part Nephilim?”

  “I think so, but I’ll have to take a small vile of blood to be sure.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” My hearts races at the prospect. “I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Well then, you’d make a lousy vampire.” His lips curve just shy of a smile.

  “And where do you send this vial? Angels-R-Us?”

  “My uncle runs the mortuary. He has access to testing.”

  “Your uncle runs the mortuary? I thought your family ran the bowling alley.” Just the thought of a room full of dead bodies sends a chill up my spine.

  “My father owned the bowling alley. My uncle had it under management until he could pass it to me. I’ve been running it into the ground ever since I was fourteen.” He shrugs. “I never claimed to be good at anything.”

  “Fourteen?”

  “I had help. Still do. But back to the topic at hand.” He pulls out a lighter, a scalpel, and a small glass vial from out of his pocket. “Are you ready to get the answers you’ve been looking for?”

  12

  On Death and Dying

  The morgue is quiet and cold. It sits at the northern tip of the island surrounded by churches as though they needed the strength of brick and mortar to shelter the dead. The cemetery lies just behind the mortuary proper with only a few sparse headstones followed by rows of glittering plaques.

  I talked my mother into letting Logan drive me home from church.

  “Skyla, this is my Uncle Barron, Gage’s dad.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand. He has a warm glow about him. He’s tall and shares the same stunning blue eyes as Gage.

  “Come into the kitchen.” He holds open a double door, which leads into a stark white room with a long metal tray in the center. I blink twice at it before I realize the covered lump is probably a body awaiting some sort of death prep, and the thought makes me sway on my heels.

  “Chin up.” His uncle pinches my cheek, hard. “Sorry, I’m short on smelling salts.”

  “No, it’s OK.” This is not a freaking kitchen. It’s a place where no one should eat, ever.

  “You have any other gifts?” He asks as he takes the vial from Logan.

  It’s hard to imagine that dark crimson liquid bubbling up at the top is what keeps me going. That it holds the secrets to my so-called life. That I produce it deep inside my bones—that everybody does—is nothing short of a miracle.

  “Gifts?” He asks again.

  “Um, no. I don’t think so. Do you?” I direct the last part toward Logan.

  “A few.”

  His uncle cuts in before he has the chance to elaborate.

  “What you have Skyla, is a unique gift. It’s the trademark of a special faction of Nephilim known as Celestra.”

  “Celestra.” I try it out on my lips—it tickles as it rolls from my tongue.

  “Most Nephilim around these parts are Levatio. Once in a while you roll the genetic dice and you get a win.”

  “A win?”

  “Celestra is the highest order of earthbound angels.” He nods. “They have the ability to rule and other amazing gifts that have left them the most loathed faction this side of the universe.”

  “Loathed as in hated?” I give Logan a look of discontent. I’m not liking the idea of being hated—and by angels? That sounds illegal on a spiritual level and wrong on just about every other.

  “Yes,” Barron continues, “they’re also nearly extinct. Then there’s the Countenance faction—we refer to them as the Counts for short. They cover the earth like vermin, demand money from everyone like the world owes it to them.”

  “Sounds like a twisted form of government.” I try to make light of the situation.

  “Oh, they have their claws in that, too,” he assures. “They’re everywhere.”

  “So why are the Celestra nearly extinct?”

  He exchanges a somber glance with Logan.

  “Because, my love,” his uncle bears into me with his cobalt eyes, “the Counts have made it their mission to have them eradicated.”

  It takes a long trip around the outskirts of my mind to grasp any one of my racing thoughts let alone verbalize a semi-coherent response. “Do I have a mark on my head? Did they kill my dad? Your parents?” I direct that last question toward Logan.

  “Yes,” Barron answers, “mostly likely yes, and definitely yes.” He looks mildly amused, peering at me from over his frameless spectacles. “Once Logan’s parents produced a near pure Celestra, they couldn’t let them breed anymore.” He says it matter of fact as though it were a well-understood fact.

  “And my dad?”

  “He produced you. But there’s also the chance he was killed for his standing. You mentioned your sister doesn’t seem to have this?”

  I shake my head. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. I’ve tested her on many occasions holding her hand while thinking the most outlandish things just trying to get a rise out of her. If she can hear me, and she’s hiding the fact, she deserves an Oscar every year for the rest of her life.

  “Perhaps the Counts don’t know about you yet,” Barron shrugs, “but they will. They have a strong sense of smell when it comes to these things. Don’t be remiss, they will kill if they feel you’re a threat.”

  “Well, I’m not a threat.” I pump a short-lived smile.

  “You might be.” He tousles my hair before walking away.

  ***

  “We don’t always know who they are,” Logan says.

  We sit on a bench overlooking the cemetery. It’s so calm and peaceful here. The sun stretches her beams over the rolling hills and sets her reflection on the grave markers, making them sparkle like a thousand shards of glass.

  “Who else is Nephilim besides you and Gage?”

  “I just know us,” he whispers. “There are a few people my uncle’s age. I only know this because they hold council meetings. Once in a while the meetings are on Paragon. When you reach the age of enlightenment, they graft you in—tell you all their secrets.” He wiggles his fingers when he says it. “It’s sort of the big reveal.”

  “Why this certain age? They don’t trust us because we’re young?”

  “Ageist bastards,” he laughs a little when he says it.

  “So how old do you have to be to know everything?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Shut up.” I push into him with my shoulder. You may as well not know anything if you have to wait all the way until you’re thirty. Thirty is practically on the verge of senility.

  “I’m serious. Thirty. Most Celestra die by then. Don’t worry, you and I will make it. I have a strong assurance of this.”

  “And how, pray tell, do you know?�
� I like where’s he’s going. Even if his goal is to comfort me, it feels as though a giant casket has been lifted off my chest.

  “Because Gage told me. He knows things. That’s his gift.”

  “When did he say this?” I give his hand a gentle squeeze.

  “The day before I met you,” it comes out in earnest.

  A light breeze picks up, and the dreary afternoon is transformed into a perfect summer day. I couldn’t think of a better place to be than sitting in a cemetery with my favorite angel right by my side.

  “Me neither.” He gives a sly smile.

  Logan brushes his lips against mine, soft as a feather.

  13

  Drama Mama

  As promised, I dig through box after box of the crap we’ve managed to hoard all these years. Honestly, I thought we threw so much stuff away before we left L.A. I didn’t think we’d have anything left to unpack.

  Piles of my elementary school art and Mia’s preschool endeavors gone awry clutter up the boxes. Not one note from my father, not a lock of his hair, or his favorite tie. I wonder why my mother bothered keeping my sister and me—obligation, or fear of prison.

  “You have any whites?” Mom breezes past me on the way to the laundry room, her arms laden down with Tads dirty socks and underwear.

  “You ever regret turning into Tad’s live-in maid?” I taunt as she passes.

  “Don’t start a war you’re not willing to finish,” my mother bleats. A few crashes and bangs later she reemerges, the sound of running water soothes the room from behind.

  “I don’t see any of Dad’s stuff.” There’s a note of defeat in my voice. I really don’t get why we need to erase someone just because they’re dead. Even Logan wants his dead girlfriend’s diary, which sucks in a big way, but that’s for another day.

  “It’s in there somewhere.” She pushes a broken wicker basket to the side with her foot and comes over to where I’m seated.

  “I think I want to put together a scrapbook. You know, of all the good times we used to have.”