Within seconds, Rockaway has cleared just as effectively as if someone yelled “shark” instead. Every car in the lot is careening for the Gates, including Gage and me, with Logan following in hot pursuit.
Gage nods at the windshield as we drive through the storm, his wipers struggling against the deluge. “What do you think Dudley wants?”
“Heck, if I know.” Ain’t that the truth.
Not once have I understood what that Sector has wanted from me—well, except for maybeme.
The rain pounds against the truck’s roof like some cosmic Morse code, each drop a message I can’t quite decipher as lightning illuminates our angsty teen convoy racing through the Gates.
Behind us, Logan’s headlights cut through the storm, and ahead of us, the rest of West Paragon High streams toward Marshall’s place like moths to a very dangerous flame.
The universe is orchestrating this moment with all the subtlety of a celestial sledgehammer, and I have the sinking feeling that whatever Marshall wants from me, it’s going to change everything.
15
Skyla
Marshall Dudley’s mansion looms before Gage and me like a Gothic fever dream, covered in stone work cut at dramatic angles that somehow manage to look both ancient and impossibly modern.
The windows glow with warm light that cuts through Paragon’s perpetual gloom, casting rectangular beams across the rolling front lawn. From inside, classical piano notes drift through the air—haunting, hypnotic, and unmistakably demonic in their perfection. No human hands created those. The keys seem to dance on their own, powered by some unseen force. Anyone else might mistake it for a player piano, but I know better. There’s a ghost at the helm of that haunted ivory coffin, and whoever it is has some serious skill.
The air outside is thick with the scent of Marshall’s signature cologne—something spiced and woodsy that makes your knees weak whether you want them to or not—mingled with the collective perfume of a thousand floozies who’ve crossed his threshold before us. The combination is both intoxicating and vaguely nauseating, like a dessert that’s too rich to finish but too delicious to stop eating. Come to think of it, that’s Marshall Dudley in a nutshell.
I’ll admit, my heart skipped a beat driving through the Gates with Gage once again. The Olivers, the Harrisons, Demetri, and Mr. Dudley himself all live behind these iron-clad walls, in the rarified air of Paragon’s elite, and as we pull up to Marshall’s grand estate, I can’t help but feel as if I’m reliving the glory days indeed. Because I am.
The rain has let up, the fog has pounced, and the rolling green lawn that leads up to Marshall’s oversized abode glitters like wet emeralds as the evening blooms into night.
Cars are parked every which way as half of West pours in through his front door with enough teenagers spilling out onto the pristine lawn like ants at a picnic. The house is lit up like a peach and—oh my word—in every window there’s a silhouette of what looks to be a half-dressed woman.
Gage ticks his head to the side. “Marshall does like his women half-dressed.”
“It’s like you read my mind.”
We share a dull laugh, lightening the mood for the very first time. “And I have a sneaking suspicion I know exactly who those women are.”
“Really?” Gage looks amused by this. “Who?” He squints their way again. “The Corset Crew?”
“I was going to say the Powdered Wig Posse, but I think I like your moniker better. Whores From Yesteryear always did sound so harsh.” Although it’s still my favorite nickname for them.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out if you’re right. Are you ready to do this?”
“Not by a long shot,” I say. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
We head inside, and the mystery of the silhouettes is immediately solved. The place is overrun with what appear to be some of Marshall’s favorite guests, seventeenth-century hookers—loud, raucous women dressed in colorful gowns cut so low they’re defying both gravity, time itself, and several decency laws. I was so right.
Their hair is piled high, their faces painted like carnival maskswith far too much rouge and kohl as they swarm through Marshall’s mansion like a bunch of flamboyant locusts. Each one looks ready to sacrifice their dignity on the altar of Marshall’s attention. And I know for a fact, they sacrifice so much more.
The piano continues its ghostly performance, the keys depressing in perfect time without a single soul in the vicinity—not a soul with a corporal frame anyway, while West High’s finest mingle with these historical harlots as if this is just another Sunday night in Paragon. And let’s face it, it so is.
The women swirl around the room in an explosion of jewel tones—emerald silk that catches the lamplight, deep burgundy velvet that whispers with every movement, and electric blue satin that practically glows against their powdered skin. Their ringlets bounce with each riotous laugh, and the abundance of ruffles, ribbons, and lace creates a visual effect that’s equal parts mesmerizing and offensive.
A courtesan sprawls across the grand staircase like a welcome mat, hoping to ensure that Marshall lands on her in more ways than one. “Points for determination,” I mutter. “But then we all know she doesn’t have to try so hard. Marshall will be landing on each of these women before the night is through.”
“I don’t get it,” Gage says, looking part mortified and part mystified at all the estrogen from yesteryear floating around the room. “Are they actresses?” he asks, clearly trying to make sense of the bizarre scene.
“Let’s go with that,” I say, though I’m fairly certain these women are the very real deal—plucked from their own time and deposited into Marshall’s mansion for deeply disturbing purposes. But then, judging by how merry they all seem, they are so down for those dirty chamber lock-ins that require no clothes and lots of smutty skills. Marshall is basically a modern-day superspreader of STDs, long gone and best forgotten.
Logan and Ellis materialize from the crowd with Ellis’ eyes glassy, and his grin so wide it threatens to split his face in half.
