Logan and Gage exchange glances.
“Do you think she means the Tenebrous Woods?” I look to the two of them for an answer. “Did Chloe ever log hours down there?”
“Not that I know of.” Logan loses himself in a daze.
“She did come with me that one time,” I say.
“She did?” Logan squints into me.
My heart thumps wild in my chest.
“Why would you ask that?” I call him on it. “You were there, remember?”
“Oh, this very last time. That’s right.” He rubs his palm into his eye. “I was thinking back before the war.”
It wasn’t this very last time, but I don’t say a word.
“She knew Ingram.” I look to Giselle. “That’s Ezrina’s ex-husband who apparently Ezrina has a violent hatred toward.”
Logan’s phone goes off, and he rises from the table.
“It’s the bowling alley. I’d better take this.” He heads toward the entry, and I listen as the front door opens and closes.
Gage and I exchange a steely gaze.
“What’s going on?” Giselle touches her hand to her throat as if she feared for her life.
“Logan is hiding something,” I whisper.
“What should we do?” Giselle jumps in her seat.
“Get ahold of his phone tonight,” I instruct Gage. “We’re going to find out who he’s really talking to.”
Giselle clicks her tongue. “But he just said it was the bowling alley.”
“He might be lying,” I whisper. “That’s what people do to protect themselves from the truth.”
“Or if they want to protect others from the truth,” Gage says it sober as if it were the only option.
The truth.
It always comes in pieces with Logan, and I’m so fucking tired of this. Why is he still keeping things from me? And why the hell is he laying Gage at my feet like some sacrificial offering?
It feels like a trap. Everything feels like a trap these days.
“I talked to Chloe earlier.” His jaw pops when he says it.
“I saw it with my own two eyes.” I’m glad Gage brought it up. When he called her over after cheer, my body wanted to detonate from jealousy.
“I asked what was going on between her and Logan.”
“What did she say?” A breath gets caught in my throat. I hope to God I finally get some answers.
“She said it was none of my damn business.” His brows tick up a notch. Gage is as curious as I am.
“It’s very much our damn business,” I whisper, cutting a quick glance out the kitchen window at Logan’s silhouette as he leans against the porch railing. “And we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
No matter what it takes.
On All Hallows Eve, Paragon is clothed in sackcloth and ashes in remembrance of the dearly departed. Clouds, bulbous and round, spread far and wide as the eye can see, glowing with such a breathtaking red patina you’d think the entire island were on fire.
Last night the game was canceled due to the fury nature unleashed. And judging by the necrotic soup the sky has turned into, I’d say we’re in for more of the same.
Brielle came over to do my makeup, and I fill her in on all the Logan drama as she applies my false lashes.
“So Gage checked the number”—I bat her away a second before she permanently blinds me—“and it wasn’t Chloe. I would have bet my left “Chloe” arm that it was the witch who lives among us, but it was a number without a name, so I did a little digging.”
“Oh my gosh! You’re like Nancy Drew or something!” She pulls back, so I can admire her work.
Brielle gifted me the “vampy Goth look” for this jewel in Satan’s crown known as Halloween. My face screams stripper from hell way more than it ever does zombie, but I was shooting for hot tonight anyway.
“The number belonged to Marshall.
Marshall
. I knew there was something sinister brewing between the two of them.”
“Dudley?” She wrinkles her nose. Brielle’s dressed as a slutty “Dorothy” complete with ruby spiked FMs and a hatchet sticking out of her back. “He probably just wanted to tell him he was failing one of his classes. He’s nice like that.”
“I doubt Logan is failing anything other than the tell-your-girlfriend-the-truth part of life.”
“Hey you just called yourself his girlfriend. I think that’s a part of the problem. You think each one of them is your boyfriend. You’re going to have to deal with the fact that you need to let two of them go.” She dots my forehead aggressively with a charcoal finish. “I know! Why don’t you envision them each with another girl, and the one you’re the most pissed at for cheating is the one you can’t live without.”
“I don’t want to do that. Imagining them with other people makes me sick. I avoid it like the plague.”
“You may not want to, but you
have
to. It’s like medicine. It doesn’t feel good going down, but it has the ability to heal you. I’m going to heal you, Skyla.” Her scarlet lips curl up one side. “Do you know who Gage would totally end up with if you didn’t choose him?” She lends a dramatic pause. “Chloe.”
“He so would not.”
“All right, some hot chick from East who looks exactly like Chloe.”
“Is there one?” A rise of panic filters through me.
“For the sake of argument,
yes.
And she’s got it bad for Gage. She does whatever he wants,
whenever
, and that boy is happy. All. The. Time.”
My blood curdles at the thought of some Chloe knock-off pleasing my Gage.
“Then there’s Logan,” Brielle continues with her taunt. “Lex called dibs on him. He’d probably cave. She almost had him a while back. I bet she seduces him by prom. That’s when they’ll really get it on. And after that, you’re ancient history. Logan wants nothing to do with you and
Gage
anymore. All he thinks about is making his little Lexy-Pooh happy. He gives her foot rubs to die for and—”
“Lexi-Pooh? Quit while you’re ahead, Bree.”
“
Ooh!
Testy, are we? Let’s see, then there’s ‘Marshall.’ He’s all about Michelle. Once she slithers that brown honeyed skin over to his bedroom, he’ll beg her to never leave. She’ll probably end up a kept women—as in kept totally in the
bedroom.”
Brielle picks up a brush and loses herself in her reflection. “He’ll probably tie her up, of course, she’ll enjoy it. He’ll feed her strawberries dipped in chocolate, and they’ll sip champagne. He does these outrages things with his tongue—”
“Stop!” I scream, slapping my hands over my ears.
“That’s the one!” She cackles as if she were howling at the moon. “You’re
so
going to be with Dudley.”
“No.” I shake my head in protest, and Snowball goes wild in her cage.
“What’s going on in here?” Mia bursts into the room. “Oh my, God!” Mia lunges at the white iron prison and coos right into Snowball’s face.
“Careful,” I warn. “She’ll bite your lips off if you don’t watch it.”
“
Aww,
what’s a cute little thing like you doing in my bitchy sister’s bedroom?”
“Mia!”
“Just kidding. Can I open the cage and play with it?”
“No. It was a gift. It means a lot to me, and I’d hate for you to lose it. Right, Snowball?” I stick my finger between the bars, inspiring it to snip in my direction.
Mia repeats the act, and it cuddles against her as if it approved of Mia’s affection.
“Would you look at that?” Mia marvels. “Snowball totally likes me better than you.”
“I knew it had some serious brain damage,” I tease, turning to get a better look at Mia. She’s got orange high heels on that rival Brielle’s with the exception she’s wearing red striped knee-socks, a blue mini skirt with overalls attached, and a skimpy white apron that shows off her northern assets. “I thought you were going to be Raggedy Ann?”
“I am.” She jumps back and smooths over her skirt. “I’m the sophisticated version,” she says it boastfully.
Melissa walks in with a long skirt, an oversized fluffy shirt, and a pirate’s hat smashed over her head. She looks more nun than wench, but I don’t say a word.
The two of them
ooh
and
ahh
over Snowball as if she were the first bird they’ve ever seen, but I can’t get over how I had Melissa pegged wrong.
It’s not Melissa who’s growing up too fast—it’s Mia.
***
Both Logan and Gage offered to give me a ride to Demetri’s, but I let them know I’d meet them there. I need to pay a visit to my favorite Sector. I didn’t dare say a word during class yesterday, I wanted to give both him and Logan ample time to say something, say
anything
about this secret powwow they’ve been conducting, but I got nothing but crickets.
Marshall’s home is unusually lit up. Every room on the upper level has a light on, and, dear God, it really does annunciate the fact there are far too many bedrooms in his not-so-humble abode.
I park and head to the door. There’s not a car in sight, but it sounds like there’s a raging party going on inside—laughter and carousing, the elegant cackle of women’s high-pitched voices exudes through the cracks.
“Trick or
treat
!” I give a brisk knock.
The door swings open, and a brunette dressed as a burlesque dancer answers. She’s got on a totally cheesy costume that reeks slut-and-a-half with a ruffled skirt that’s short up front and lengthens to the floor in the back. She’s wearing a black and red corset on top to finish off the slutty ensemble. Her hair is pinned high, and her makeup looks like she put it on in the dark.
“Who are you?” I say, breezing past her. Bodies swarm throughout the downstairs—all of them, women dressed like strippers from yesteryear. Pink and black lace, yellow and black, every one of them is dressed in some strange burlesque uniform with their crotchless petticoat in the front with fishnets and strange lace boy-short panties exposed. Every girl, as far as the eye can see, is beyond beautiful, most of them with a strange, feathered cap.
Someone says something over by the fireplace, and the living room explodes with laughter.
“What is going on?” I demand sharply. I think Marshall has it backward—you have the bachelor party
before
the ambush wedding.
The room quiets down as all eyes narrow in on me.
“This is nothing but a room full of hoes,” I say it under my breath. The piano starts in on a quickened ragtime beat as the room, once again, detonates with chatter and dancing. I speed deeper into the house and spot girls on the table, on the chairs, swarming through his kitchen, molesting his prized copper cookware as if it were Marshall, himself.
“Hey, knock that off! That’s disgusting!”
An entire gaggle of underdressed girls, break out in laughter.
“Why is everything so damn funny?”
A strawberry blonde, with her lips painted a cool fuchsia, steps forward.
“Who is you?” She snips in the cockney version of a British accent.
“I’m…” God, who am I? “The
lady
of the house.” I snatch a pot from one of the freaks dressed to impress on any sleazy street corner. “And those are my freaking pots and pans. And, by the way, what’s with the themed costume party? You get a bulk discount at Hookers-R-Us?”
“What’s this
hooker
?” The blonde glances back at her pasty skinned companions.
Why do they all look so uniformly disastrous? And what’s with the funny accents? Something is definitely amiss.
“Where did you come from?” I demand.
“Dover.” A younger girl with rich auburn hair, dangling in long banana curls, shouts from the back, and two of her friends swat her in the process.
“
Dover
?” My heart jumps a little. I remember Marshall mentioning Dover once in a conversation. It was back during ski week and…it was the night he gave me the corset to wear for the murder mystery dance. Hey! I totally remember now. He told me the story of his gal pal that threw herself off a cliff because the love of her life was imprisoned in the tower. Marshall constructed the metal work for that corset. The exact corset he made just for her. He loved her. Marshall’s heart once belonged to someone else, and it wasn’t me.
A breath gets caught in my throat.
Oh my, God. Is she here?
“Where’s Marshall?” I gag at the thought of him doing all sorts of inappropriate things with her upstairs. “Marshall!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “What the hell is with the corset cotillion?”
“Marshall?” The redhead draws her hand to her neck, and a collective gasp circles the kitchen as if I just cursed out loud.
“Are you referencing Master Dudley?” Fuchsia lips gawks at me as if we couldn’t possibly be referring to the same person.
“
Yes
. Master Dudley.” I try not to smear it with sarcasm.
“What do you mean by the lady of the house?” The strawberry blonde crouches toward me, choking the handle of a frying pan as if she were about to knock me out of the park with it.
“I’m Master Dudley’s
wife
,” I spit it out, loud and proud, and the entire house falls momentarily silent. “Spirit wife,” I whisper under my breath, but the room is buzzing again, and this time entire swarms of questionably dressed women swoop in on me as if I had just morphed into an exotic bird.
“This is she?” The young redhead touches my cheek. “She’s ghastly!”
“I’m not ghastly.” I swat her away. “And, believe me,” I say, heading back to the living room, “you do not want to get into a name calling war,
honey.
”
I speed over to the piano where the ruckus of ragtime music bleeds my eardrums dry—swear to God, is he sitting on those keys? Hitting them with golf clubs? Sounds like someone forgot they were supposed to tickle the ivory not beat them into submission.
The dark gloss of the piano is discreetly covered with a woman in white, sitting on top, kicking her legs in the air like twigs made of paper.
I dash past her and gasp.
The piano bench is decidedly empty, and the keys depress without the aid of Sector fingers.
Demetri’s mirror of horror trembles as if showboating for my attention. A leg emerges from the warbling glass as a tall blonde with a full blush pink skirt and a bouffant hairdo emerges.