“Am I? Would you like to go see for yourself? I’m sure they’d love to have you for dinner. Demetri is quite fond of family gatherings.”
Rage infiltrates me on a molecular level. This can’t be happening. This can’t be the price of saving our children.
I grab Logan’s hand without hesitation and feel that familiar electric tingle of light driving energy coursing through my veins. “We’re going back.”
“Skyla—” Logan starts.
“I said we’re going back,” I shout, and my voice reverberates off the water in countless echoes. “Right now. This isn’t over.”
Logan blows out a breath as his fingers tighten around mine. The world begins to shimmer around the edges before being swallowed up in a sea of stars.
Candace’s laughter follows us as we dissolve into the light. “Run all you like. You can’t outrun destiny forever.”
But I don’t care about destiny or consequences or cosmic balance. All I care about is that Lizbeth Landon is not going to be married to Demetri, not in any timeline, not while I have breath in my body to prevent it.
If saving the future means destroying the past, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.
41
Skyla
The Landon house sits in that eerie morning silence that only happens when everyone’s gone and the structure itself seems to be holding its breath. It’s just after ten in the morning, and the place is all but abandoned.
Outside, Paragon’s signature fog rolls across the landscape, alive and breathing, turning the world beyond our windows into something ethereal and mysterious. The sky hangs heavy with purple-welted clouds that promise rain later, and the scent of evergreens drifts through the slightly open window, mixing with the familiar aroma of coffee and whatever Mom burned for breakfast this morning.
Logan and I materialize in the living room of the Landon house with significantly more grace than our crash landing at Silent Cove, though I still have to grab the back of the couch to keep from face-planting into Mom’s collection of ceramic angels. Since Logan and I escorted ourselves here, we’ll have no trouble getting back on our own.
“We should visit the past more often,” Logan says, as we make our way to the family room. “That way, I could have my way with you in the OG butterfly room anytime we want. I’m finally getting pretty good at this whole light driving thing. Maybe I should add Master of the Space-Time Continuum to my resume.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I tell him, as I hit the kitchen. “We still have to commit a federal crime and get out without being caught.”
“Did you say federal crime?” Logan shakes his head as he peers through the curtains at the purple-tinged morning. “You do realize federal prison terms are meant to be served in full. No time off for looking pretty. And I’m just talking about me. I didn’t have a bank heist on my bingo card today.”
“You are hilarious.” I quickly grab the mail key and peek through the front curtains to make sure the coast is clear, though the fog is so thick I can barely see the roses across the street. “Life is full of surprises. Besides, we’re not robbing a bank. We’re committing a mail heist. I chose this day for a reason.”
“So, we’re tampering with US mail?” Logan tips his head with amusement. “If I recall correctly from civics class, it’s a federal offense punishable by up to five years in prison.”
“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” I ask, with a laugh. “There’s a heck of a lot of wrongs we need to right, and if a federal crime is the only way to do it, then so be it.”
“I’m impressed by your level of commitment to criminal activity. It’s very hot, in a law-breaking kind of way.”
A tiny laugh escapes me as I ease open the front door, wincing when it creaks loud enough to wake the dead. Not that it matters. We’re alone, and we look like we belong here—for the most part. The morning fog hits my face like a cool kiss from Paragon itself.
“Here’s hoping we hit the light driving timeline on the head,” I mutter, jogging down the driveway, trying not to slip on fog-slicked pavement, and quickly extract every last bit of mail from the rusty, dusty box. I riffle through the thick stack with trembling fingers—electric bill, credit card offers, enough department store fliers to wallpaper half of Paragon—and there, wedged between a grocerystore circular and what appears to be a letter from Aunt Karen, is a glossy cruise brochure featuring a couple in matching Hawaiian shirts grinning maniacally from the deck of a ship.
“Got it,” I call back to Logan through the fog, waving the brochure like a trophy.
“Excellent. Now get back here before someone calls the postal police.”
I sprint back up the driveway, my shoes pounding the wet pavement as wisps of fog curl around me like a ghost begging me to linger. My heart hammers with adrenaline over our supposed successful mail theft. I guess only time will tell. Literally.
“Mission accomplished,” I sing. “One cruise brochure, officially intercepted.”
Logan takes the brochure from my hands, examining it with the kind of serious attention usually reserved for ransom notes.
“Retirement Paradise cruise package,” he muses. “Seven days of unlimited buffets, unlimited alcohol, and shuffleboard. Unlimited food and booze? I can see how this would lead to Demetri getting his hooks into your mother. Tad is never going to leave this ship.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” I warn.
