“We do,” we answer in unison, the words feeling pulled from somewhere outside of our exhausted selves.
Candace takes a deep breath, looking rather pleased with herself as her entire being glows a brilliant shade of blue—not the gentle shimmer of before, but a nuclear blast of celestial power that temporarily blinds both Logan and me.
“Then it is done,” she declares with finality.
The light recedes, and I blink to clear the spots from my vision just in time to see Candace beginning to fade like morning mist under a white-hot sun.
“Whoa, whoa, hold your horses,” Logan says, reaching for her arm, which is quickly evaporating. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t stay,” she says, already far too transparent for her owngood—or more to the point, ours. “But don’t worry, you won’t be here forever. Time marches on. To secure the anchor, you’ll need to remain for a moment.”
“What?” I hiss, trying to grasp at reason. “But as soon as the anchor is set, we’ll still get to go back to Whitehorse, to the night we left?”
“Oh, you’ll get there sooner than you think.” Candace winks, and it looks like a supernova is taking place in her eye. Her entire being lights up in a blast, the most electric shade of blue I have ever seen. “Now behave.” A dangerous smile curves her lips. “And have a little fun while you’re here. You both deserve it.”
Before we can demand another answer out of her, she vanishes completely, leaving only a faint blue shimmer in the air where she once stood.
“I don’t like this,” Logan mutters, reaching for my hand. “Something feels wrong.”
“Agree. I think we should?—”
My words cut off as a strange sensation washes over me. It’s as if I’m being pulled through water against a very strong current, and judging by the look on Logan’s face, he’s feeling the very same thing. Only we’re not getting carried out to sea, we’re getting carried across the room, and I see our past selves freeze mid-conversation, their forms suddenly glowing an electric shade of blue, the very same shade that surrounded Candace just before she left.
“Logan?” I gasp, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
“Skyla, I think we’re?—”
The rest of his sentence is lost as we’re yanked forward, our consciousness hurled across the room like celestial projectiles aimed directly at our younger selves. There’s a moment of disorienting double vision, seeing both through our current eyes and through the eyes of our past selves, and then a violent fusion as the present merges with the past.
We jolt upright and look at one another with the shock of what just happened written clearly across our faces. I look down at my hands—and they look smaller, smoother, unmarked by the trialsthat would come. Far fewer pale freckles that demarcate light driving, aka time travel, in general. I’m a clean slate, and oh so very young.
“We’re teenagers again,” I marvel, still examining my hands, my arms, my gloriously youthful waist.
“Full factory reset,” Logan says with a little hop as if he were testing out a new pair of sneakers.
“She didn’t say that was going to happen,” I say, stunned, as I flex my younger fingers.
Logan frowns, scratching at the scruff on his face as if confirming his own transformation. “I have a feeling she didn’t say a lot of things.”
I meet his eyes, and a shiver runs up my spine that has nothing to do with Emily Morgan’s drafty house. We’re trapped in our old bodies, bound by a vow we didn’t fully comprehend, with no sign of my wily mother to explain what nightmare might come next.
And somewhere in the future, our children sleep peacefully, unaware that their parents just made a deal that may or may not protect them—and my mother never makes a deal that doesn’t cost everything.
7
Skyla
I’ll admit, it’s taking more than a minute or two for the strange sensation of being in my younger body to subside. Being seventeen again feels like wearing skinny jeans after Thanksgiving dinner. Technically, I fit, but everything is compressed in places that shouldn’t be compressed. My adult brain needs a minute to stop panicking as my surroundings snap into sharper focus.
The piano clatter has dissipated, given way to bass-heavy music thumps against my ribcage like a felon trying to burst its way in, while sweaty teenage bodies sway in the dimly lit space of Emily Morgan’s haunted house.
Rock music drifts from somewhere deeper in the heart of this dragon-approved dwelling, competing with laughter and riotous, heavily slurred conversations. The air is ripe with the usual suspects, beer, enough sugary perfume to outfit a legion of teenage girls, and the unmistakable earthy scent of weed that no amount of anything can hide from parental detection.
I look over at Logan, whose eyes are still wide with the shock ofour celestial body-snatching. His fingers flex back and forth as if he were experimenting to see if this younger vessel of his is willing to respond to his adult commands.
“This is so freaking bizarre,” I whisper, leaning in close. “I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes, except the clothes areme. And honestly, I feel six sizes too small. I hope I don’t get blisters where blisters shouldn’t be.” Although, judging by the baby blue FM’s I’ve pressed my feet into, blisters are more or less guaranteed. Oh, who cares. These stilts might be a killer, but they are stinking cute. I wish I never donated them.
Logan gives a short-lived laugh before scanning the room with this newfound teenage perspective. “We need to figure out what she’s up to, Skyla. What are we supposed to do here besides secure the anchor?”
