Toxic Part Two (Celestra Series Book 7.5)

by Addison Moore

  Knowing Ethan I’m betting there’s already one in the works called “Sweaty Sex with Chloe,” or “Killer Sex.” Either way, it’s disgusting.

  “Spoke to that Kragger guy last night.” Tad makes a circle in the air with his fork. “Talk about your freak show.”

  Emerson’s eyes widen. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to an emotion since she’s arrived.

  “He’s mentally unstable.” Tad espouses his armchair psychology in the presence of said mentally unstable person’s long-dead daughter. “I bet me and the boys end up running all the stores on the island by Christmas. Heck, I might even get that loon to sign over the deed to his house if I play my cards right.” Tad barks out a belly laugh while Emerson needles him with her death spears. She postures as if tackling him were a real prospect.

  “We should sell knives on the side,” Ethan offers his illogical advice. “The ones that cut through pennies and shit.” His eyes linger over Emerson—run up and down her body while molesting her with his carnal wanderings. Chloe butts into his shoulder, hard, with a look of discontent. Does she really expect a devoted relationship after unzipping his birthday suit with a knife?

  “Oh!” Mom waves her hand with excitement. “I got my milk donor to agree to sell at the store. She’s very excited about the ice cream and cheeses. That’s the new thing all over France.”

  I scoff at Mom’s spectacular level of insanity.

  I’m pretty sure human boobs were never intended to stray into the dairy business.

  “What do you think, Chloe?” Emerson leans her elbows onto the counter. “Do you think people should barter their bodily fluids in exchange for cold hard cash?”

  I bet that’s how Chloe sponsored her friends for Skyla campaign.

  Chloe narrows her steely gaze over Emerson. She galvanizes her hatred and fear all rolled into one.

  “I think,” Chloe starts, “helping someone get something they otherwise could never have is a beautiful thing.”

  “And when it hurts them?” Emerson glowers. “When all of your so-called good intentions poison them—and they wind up dead?”

  “Sometimes things happen.” Chloe doesn’t waver.

  “Sometimes they do.” Emerson plucks at her fingers.

  I smell some serious payback in the works.

  “Accidents happen,” Emerson hums.

  Second thought, I smell a serious “accident” in the making.

  The two of them shoot hate-filled beams at one another. I’ve never seen Chloe so challenged before, so taken aback by a show of force.

  “Yes.” Chloe gives a morbid nod. “Accidents do happen.”

  It’s a total kill or be killed atmosphere. I’d better hand deliver Emerson to the Kraggers before Chloe hand delivers her to the yard in the form of mulch.

  Drake stiffens at the strange show of bravado. “Are you two like on something?”

  Mom sucks in a lungful of air and plucks the baby from her third nipple, leaving him to squirm and gyrate unnaturally. The short auburn hair on his head wafts in the breeze, soft as down feathers.

  “Oh dear God up in heaven, forgive me.” Mom pants as she places him over her shoulder and runs in a spastic circle. “It completely slipped my mind that this woman, whom I don’t even know, might be under the influence of some chemical substance. She could be poisoning the baby and I’m party to it.”

  “For God’s sake,” Tad crows. “I bet you’ve just funded her reefer habit for the next two years.”

  “Never mind that.” Her voice spikes clear and high. “Help me get him to the emergency room. Oh God.” Mom is in a clear panic as she hustles around collecting bottles and formula, shuffling diapers into a large bloated bag on the floor. “That E.R. is a germ emporium, and we could be stuck there for hours. God knows what the baby will come home with.”

  Tad throws on his jacket. “Pretend to faint, Lizbeth,” he advises. “That’ll move us to the front of the line.”

  They zip down the hall and out the door, leaving the freshly packed diaper bag in their wake.

  “Wait!” I run out after them and catch up with Mom on the porch.

  “Thank you.” She snaps it up and hikes it over her shoulder.

  “I’m going to see Dad.” I whisper so Tad won’t hear. “Are you going to stop by?”

  Her face pinches before smoothing out in a sad expression.

  “Honey, that was just a dream. None of that was real. Get some rest, OK?” She runs her fingers over my cheek before rushing to the minivan.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” I call after her, but she doesn’t listen. “People don’t share dreams.” Unless of course, you’re Logan.

  Figures. Mom’s shock over Demetri put her in a hardcore state of denial. Obviously, she’s too enthralled with the prospect of having a spare penis around to paint him as the villain in her life. I wonder what Demetri would do if he knew we outted him to his precious Lizbeth?

  A small pink duffle bag sits next to the door and catches my attention. A note is pinned to the side. From D. Edinger.

  I pick it up and unzip it.

  “Oh my God.” It expels from me in disbelief.

  An entire array of leather straps and buckles, the very kind they use down in the tunnels fill the small tote. I do a quick inventory of the sexual perversion—a long leather leash, a whip, a collar with metal spikes—nothing but a bunch of S&M crap.

  It’s like he’s brazenly threatening me with some sort of demented captivity.

  I suppose I got my answer.

  If I thought brining Emerson back was enough to keep my treble open, I’d better think again.

  Chapter 95

  Nature Verses Nurture

  A somber sky boils up above in a rainbow of muted colors. A deep siren of red tints the underbellies of the pregnant clouds, reflective of the evil that’s overrun the island. Paragon laughs in the face of the seasons. It sinks us in mire, powders us with fog from dusk till dawn, dressing the sky in an ashen canopy of defiance. It is the wound of the world, the place where God weeps over the sorry state of humanity, grieves the fact he ever made such vile creatures worthy of contempt—creatures who eat evil for breakfast.

  I pull into Marshall’s palatial estate and get out of the car. A bevy of voices rise from the back of the property, so I round out the side of the house and head toward the early morning rebel rousing.

  I wish my mother were with me—that she believed what she heard and saw last night. Demetri’s stranglehold over my mother is exasperating—an exercise in futility that apparently not even my father himself could rectify.

  Ms. Messenger, Marshall nods a private greeting from a table set out on the lawn adorned with crisp linens and silverware. Glad you could join the festivities. I was just going over nuptial arrangements with the future in-laws.

  “Oh God,” I whisper, totally ignoring Marshall for the time being as I take in the expanse of the property in its entirety.

  A spectacular spray of sunlight fills in the landscape with a butter-yellow haze. The clouds ruffle out a lavender hole in the sky and pour ethereal beams over the backyard.

  The horses roam loose and mingle about with the lamas.

  “Skyla!” My mother rises and a spray of butterflies flush out from around her in a burst of orange passion, giving the illusion of flames as they dissipate into the sky.

  Dad rises, revealing someone familiar behind him—Logan? That’s odd. Then again, my mother did say he was her favorite suitor for me.

  I wave at him as I offer my celestial mother a quick hug, then a stronger, longer one to my father, who feels every bit as much alive as I do.

  “I had a personal invite. I couldn’t refuse.” Logan stands, spearing me with his handsome features. A naughty smile plays on his lips as I wrap my arms around him.

  “I’m sorry for shooting you,” I gurgle into his neck. “Are you OK?”

  “It was nothing—just a quick nap.” He reaches down and interlocks our fingers, meeting his gaze with min
e. I dreamed of you. It was completely indecent. His brows spear down in a malevolent manner—makes him look sexy as hell. This bad boy side of Logan is dangerous in a becoming sort of way. We burned up the sheets, Skyla. And, in case you’re wondering, you’re a spitfire in bed.

  Marshall clears his throat and glares over at Logan as if he heard every single word—as if he saw the scene play out in his mind.

  “Sit, love.” Marshall nods into me. “The crepes are fresh.” He swoops in behind me and pulls out a seat. Marshall makes sure I’m comfortable before pouring a glass of sanguine liquid into a crystal goblet for me.

  “Blood orange juice?” I’m hopeful.

  “Nothing but the best for the love my life,” he says, situating himself across from me. “Get used to having the finer things at your fingertips—your disposal.” He punctuates it with a sexual leer that lets me know he’s the luxury in question. There’s no doubt Marshall would be a luxury for any woman.

  “Do you hear this?” I look to my mother. Her hair billows soft and fine. Gold filters through each shaft, each its own glittering city. “That orator you sent has convinced this Sector that we’ll marry. And he’s totally impossible now.”

  “Delphinius gave confirmation?” She gives a congratulatory smile over to Marshall.

  Logan clears his throat. Logan looks every bit as heavenly as my mother, my father. He feels every bit as much family.

  “I think,” my father says, placing his hand over my back, “your focus should be one hundred percent scholastic for now.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Marshall wands his fork. “I’m faculty, you know. It doesn’t get any more scholastic than yours truly.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Dad shoots a look to the hypersexual Sector.

  Logan gives a low thundering growl. “He meant education. As in going to Host with someone like me.” Logan blooms a wicked grin.

  I roll my eyes at the strange banter that’s taken over the table and lean into my father.

  “I miss you so much.” I sigh into him. I could spend the rest of my life gazing at his familiar features. His skin looks healthier than I remember, less thick, more youthful. His eyes sparkle like miniature globes. A perfect combination of the ocean mixed with the forest.

  “I’m here now,” he assures, brushing my cheek with a kiss.

  “I commend you, Skyla.” My mother holds her emotions close like a very sharp knife. “You proved to be a true warrior in battle last night.”

  “You were right to defend yourself.” My father is prompt to justify my actions.

  “But I killed her.” The words strangle from my vocal cords.

  “It was fascinating to witness.” Marshall leans back as though he were replaying the event. “When she reached up from her corpse-like state and snatched you to the ground, it was a scene straight out of a horror movie. You did quite well.”

  “What’s going on?” I tick my head back a notch, astonished at how well apprised they all seem to be. “Were you having some shared hallucination?” I gape at the three of them. Or maybe they were there in spirit?

  “Heavens no.” Marshall looks disgusted by the thought of a three-way lip-lock. “We curled up on the couch and watched it on the flat screen.”

  “You watched it on TV?” I scoot back in my seat incredulous at the idea.

  “Of course we watched, Skyla.” Candace leans in. “I have the war projected at all times. You do realize you’re constantly under the supervision of angelic hosts. You’re to teach them a lesson through your ability to reason in faith.”

  That’s right. I think Marshall mentioned once, we were reality TV for angels.

  “What’s the point?” I ask. “They’ve got all the faith they need, besides…” I’m not letting her off the death train so quickly. “Killing someone is horrible. The war should be private. I never want that to be considered for anyone’s viewing pleasure. And, by the way, I didn’t enjoy killing and never plan on doing it again.” I look over at my father. “You were right. I was defending myself. She would have killed me if I didn’t act, but I hate myself for it. I hope the Counts bring her back.”

  “Interesting.” My mother’s face smooths with curiosity. “You care for the state of your enemy. I guarantee you, Skyla, had she survived, she would have enjoyed a victory dinner in honor of your death. She would have stomped on your memory, used your name as a curse for the rest of her natural days. You are far too much of a bleeding heart. Do consider saving your affection for those who deserve it.”

  “Skyla is very forgiving.” Logan pipes up. He relaxes into his seat with his hands folded at the waist, observing the conversation, and suddenly it feels like it’s the analyze Skyla hour. “She has big heart—sometimes too big. She’s generous and doesn’t like to hurt others.”

  I wonder if by “others” he means Gage.

  “Room for three in that heart, I hear,” my mother says, grazing me for a reaction.

  “You and I both know I can’t have three.” I test her with curt look. “Why would the Decision Council entertain such a foolish idea?”

  The world grinds to a halt around us. The horses and lamas crane their necks in this direction as if they understood the depth of my folly.

  Marshall sharpens his stare, hard as flint. “I’ve warned you about slandering celestial beings.” He says it low as if we were the only two at the table. “And calling someone a fool qualifies you for the flames. Do hold your tongue.”

  A lama strides over and places its head lovingly over my mother’s shoulder as if to comfort her from the effects of my harsh words. Its golden fur gives off a lustrous shine while its long lashes give it the attributes of a beautiful woman.

  “I’ve called Logan for you,” she purrs, absentmindedly scratching the creature just below its chin.

  “As in for breakfast or for life?”

  She gives the lama a tiny smile but doesn’t answer the question.

  “What do you think, Dad?” I appraise my father with the dappled sunlight over his shoulders. The rosy patch of flesh still slightly raised beneath his left eye, a permanent scar from a motorcycle accident in his teens. I guess we take our scars with us. They draw a roadmap of our past, tell us we can heal, but that we shouldn’t forget where we’ve been. I want to reach up and touch the pad of my finger over it, see if it’s warmer than the flesh around it.

  “Your heart knows the answer.” He dips his hand in my hair and gives a gentle tousle. “It’ll come to you when the time is right.”

  Somehow, I find this impossible to believe. I’d like to smash Logan and Gage together until they become one person, but that’s horrific and heartbreakingly unfair. They are each their own universe, and in the end, I must choose.

  Marshall clears his throat, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  Then there’s my math teacher to contend with.

  I turn back to my father. “When did you meet Mom? I mean—you know, Lizbeth.”

  “Shortly after your mother passed. It was a blind date set up by friends.”

  I cut a quick look to Logan and Marshall.

  “That friend wouldn’t happen to be Demetri, would it?”

  Dad looks over at my mother and they exchange a long moment of silence.

  “Curious how destiny works.” Marshall glowers at her. “Wouldn’t you say, Skyla?”

  Dear God. What the hell is going on?

  “I think we should get to training,” Logan says. He settles his hand over mine beneath the table. Maybe we should let this go for now.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Why would Demetri set you guys up? He was the one who killed you. If he wanted Mom so much, why not circumvent the situation and marry her in the first place?” The concept, although repulsive, seems highly logical in nature.

  My father looks over at my mother, who’s attracted a swarm of horses and lamas in a rather peaceful-looking congregation. A stray cottontail hops over the thick navy lawn and burrows in for the show.

>   “What’s going on?” A rise of panic fills me. “He’s not going to be a part of our lives, right? He killed you.” I pull Dad by elbow. “And captured me.”

  “Sometimes we learn lessons the hard way,” my mother reprimands. “Certainly Lizbeth is no different. I won’t tell you the future, Skyla, but perhaps it’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

  “Not outside the realm of possibility,” I say to myself as if trying to decipher a riddle.

  “She would marry your killer?” I breathe with disbelief into my father.

  “You’re a killer, Skyla.” My mother notes. Nevermore flaps down like a thunderous shadow and lands on her shoulder, majestic as midnight. “You yourself will marry one day. Should we judge the one who’s destined to love you?”

  Freaking shit.

  “Logan, take care of my daughter.” My mother charges him with the instruction and the world stills around me as if she were ordering him to commit to spousal duty. She takes her time before rising from the table. “We’ll see the two of you inside for training.”

  Inside? Nothing about this morning makes sense.

  “Aren’t we going to shoot arrows and stuff?” I ask. It’s hardly an indoor-friendly sport. And speaking of arrows, a nuclear detonation would seem more efficient against the Counts, although I’d exclude my family and Ellis from that equation. Then it dons on me there are probably a whole lot of other friendly Counts out there.

  “Arrows and stuff,” Marshall says it mostly to himself, exasperated by my lack of all things warfare.

  “Skyla.” My mother huffs while stretching her neck to the sky. “We’ve moved beyond arrows and stuff,” she mocks. “Sector Marshall, come. Leave them be.”

  “The clock is ticking—you have less than five.” Marshall says it sharp before cutting Logan a look that suggests a limb would be required if we were late.

  It’s becoming clear my mother is trying to nurture my affections for the Oliver present—to ensure a love connection under the guise of her approval. If she knew how I truly felt about him, she wouldn’t have to try so hard.

  I watch as my father tucks his hand in the small of her back. They share a laugh as they walk across the patio. They look every bit a couple. How is it possible that he ever loved two women? Although I guess, technically, he’d still be married to my real mother if the Counts hadn’t set fire to her flesh like she was garbage and left her to die—then turned around and did the same thing to him. I guess Mia wouldn’t be here though. And I do love Lizbeth and very much consider her my mom.