“Gage can handle things.” Logan nods slowly. “And I hope Eden gives him a run for his fun uncle money.”
That gets a genuine laugh from my mother. “She is my granddaughter, after all.”
“One more time,” I tell her. “Explain this to me as if I were three.” And something tells me that still won’t be enough. “Why the anchor marker thingy?”
“The anchor isn’t just a marker—it’s a way to harvest genuine emotional energy from a powerful moment in your past. I need this energy to create a protective hedge specifically calibrated to your family’s unique power signature. Demetri’s surveillance has shown me that someone, or something, and most likely Demetri himself, is planning to target the children directly. The only way to shield them is with a barrier woven from the emotional resonance of your shared history. By creating an anchor at a moment of pure love and unity, we establish a temporal home base that will automatically pull your family back to safety if anyone tries to displace you through time.”
“Wow,” I say. “That was a lot.” But then it is late. And I do have about three brain cells left after having all those children. Plus, there’s that whole no sleep thing. Come to think of it, I have a lot working against me. I probably should invest in a protective hedge fund—or an anchor, as we’re calling it. It more or less sounds like a supernatural security system, and that can’t be all that bad, can it? I hesitate, still unsure of any of this. “How far in the past do you think we should go?”
Candace’s face lights up as her countenance begins to glow and sparkle a pale shade of blue. She looks both dead and pleased, far too pleased if you ask me, as if she’s won a game I didn’t realize we were playing. And something tells me she has done just that.
“We can poke and prod until you find something you’re comfortable with,” she says, reaching out to take our hands in hersand succeeding this time. And sure enough, that electric current that courses through her rides up our arms, and both Logan and I suck in a quick breath because of it. “We don’t have any time to waste.”
Before I can voice the objection forming in my throat, the room around us begins to wobble and warp before fading away like a fever dream. Our familiar living room dissolves in a spray of tiny blue stars, each one carrying away a piece of the present like cosmic confetti.
The last thing I see before our new reality sets in is my mother’s eyes—gleaming with an emotion that looks nothing like the protection she’s promised and everything like the victory of a predator that has finally cornered its prey.
4
Skyla
No sooner did we take hold of Candace’s hands than she whisked Logan and me off to Paragon past.
We materialize in a darkness punctuated by neon phone lights and the occasional flare of a lighter. Bodies—so many sweaty teenage bodies pressing against one another in the familiar chaos of a legendary West Paragon rager.
The bass from some ancient rap song thumps through the floorboards and into my bones, a rhythm my adult body still remembers from a lifetime ago. The air is thick with the unmistakable cocktail of cheap beer, expensive weed, and the particular desperation that only high school hormones can bring—an olfactory memory so potent it nearly knocks me back in time all on its own.
“Welcome to pure teenage chaos,” Candace announces, her voice somehow cutting through the din despite not raising it. “Quite the historical moment you’ve chosen.” She frowns at the surroundings as our eyes struggle to adjust.
I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. By the looks of it,we’re standing in the corner of Ellis Harrison’s gargantuan living room in all of its glossy, big-money glory. Ellis lives behind the Gates and right across the street from the Oliver house, but his father liked to show off his wealth in ways the Olivers could never dream of. Ellis’ parents have a stripper pole in their game room, while Emma would rather hex someone than acknowledge any form of vertical foreplay.
“Oh, the good times we had here,” I muse while soaking in every last ounce of teenage desperation.
“And are apparently having here right this minute,” Logan points out.
No one seems to notice us—a benefit of whatever celestial cloaking device my mother has deployed.
And honestly, I’ll take that as a win. My track record at these parties wasn’t exactly stellar the first time around.
I take a closer look at the faces swarming around us and cringe.
“Why does everyone look like babies? Were we ever this young?” I ask Logan, not necessarily needing a reply. “Somehow, everyone in this room looks as if they belong in junior high, or elementary school, for sure not high school.”
“I agree,” he says grimly.
“And for the record, I didn’t exactly choose this moment in time,” I mutter, but my objection is halfhearted as I take in the scene. “I’m guessing I was fifteen at this point. Everything felt like the end of the world.”
Logan shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have chosen this night either.” A tight smile appears and disappears just as fast. “We weren’t all that happy way back when. In fact, it was far more drama and trauma than I want to think about.”
“Same,” I say just as a loud whoop goes off in the corner, and we turn to see a young Natalie Coleman, her rust-colored curls bouncing as she does body shots off some Countenance boy whose name I’ve long-forgotten. Em sits on a couch nearby, looking vaguely scandalized yet mostly indifferent to the debauchery around her. My stepbrother Drake leans against a wall, watchingthe party with that calculating wannabe bad-boy look he perfected long before he grew into his reputation.
And there we are—our younger selves scattered throughout the room, living through a night that would become just one of many turning points in our complicated history.
Logan’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently as he takes in the sheer teenage chaos. “This was the life,” he muses with a note of nostalgia locked in his voice. “Another lifetime ago, I’m not so sure I want to relive.”
I laugh, watching as a baby-faced Ellis funnels a beer with expertise that suggests this isn’t his first rodeo. And we all know it’s not. Ellis was playing with beer bongs when he was in diapers—and most likely other, far more nefarious bongs, too.
“I do believe these were the good old days that Ellis was lamenting at the bonfire,” I say, bumping Logan’s shoulder with mine. “And I hate to say it, but he was right. We had it pretty good despite all of the trauma and drama, didn’t we?”
