We stand there, the three of us, watching as the last embers of the bonfire surrender to the night. The waves continue their ceaseless conversation with the shore, whispering secrets we can’t quite decipher. They’re sort of like Candace in that respect.
Above us, our home stands solid and bright against the darkness—Whitehorse guarding us as it always has. It’s the house thatLogan built for me with love, the house that Logan, Gage, and I—along with our bubbly brood will always call home.
An owl hoots in the distance, a flash of light ignites the sky as a shooting star leaves a trail of blue shimmers in its wake, and for reasons unknown, a mean chill runs down my spine because of it.
My mother doesn’t offer solutions unless there’s a problem so massive it threatens everything we’ve fought for. And she doesn’t get angry at Demetri unless he’s crossed a line that evenshecan’t forgive. Heaven knows it’s happened before, and there’s a body count to prove it.
Whatever storm is brewing, it’s heading straight for us. And this time, I’m not sure all the celestial power in the world will be enough to weather it.
And a part of me wonders if Gage, Logan, and I can weather it, too.
2
Skyla
The scent of sea salt and Eden’s strawberry bubble bath lingers in the air, mixing with the subtle aroma of cinnamon and pumpkin spice.
Earlier this morning, Laken and I baked pumpkin muffins, followed by pumpkin cinnamon rolls with a pumpkin cream cheese frosting.
Okay, fine. Laken did all the heavy culinary lifting, but I watched and licked the bowls with unbridled abandon. Plus, she said I made a great cheering section once I screamed my head off after my first bite of each.
Those sweet treats have basically been demolished, but the scent of both lives on like a ghost in the house. Fall is in the air, and so is my appetite for all things pumpkin spice. Bonus points if it’s slathered in cream cheese frosting. And it must be slathered in exactly that. I’m not a monster.
Outside, the waves beat gently against the shoreline, their rhythm a constant reminder of why we chose Whitehorse—thatperfect blend of isolation and security that’s hard to find on an island full of supernatural beings with some serious boundary issues. Mostly that would be my mother, Lizbeth, who would pay cold, hard cash to get me to move back to the Landon house with my entire clan. You’d think I’ve moved to Mars instead of less than a mile down the road, the way she goes on about it.
Of course, we’re not behind the Gates where Paragon’s elite call home, but we have the ocean. Our constant companion that reminds us that even Paragon has borders, a beginning and an end, limits that even it can’t cross.
Inside the house is an eclectic mix of warm dark wood, pale walls, creamy marble countertops, and an overabundance of toys that would make Santa’s workshop jealous.
Our living room glows with amber light from the stone fireplace, casting glowing shadows across the white walls that are done up to the nines with framed photos of our chaotic family saga. And each and every one of those pictures has the ability to make me smile.
A plush sectional eats up most of the living room—big enough to accommodate our family and friends without anyone having to touch elbows and knees unless they want to, and someone always wants to, so it’s more of a tangle of limbs. The furniture is modern yet comfortable, just like everything else in this mini-mansion we’ve somehow made into a home.
The TV is on, snacks are on hand, and the sound of children screaming at top volume vibrates the spindles on the wrought iron staircase as if they were tuning forks. I think they’re having fun. I hope they’re having fun. As long as no one’s crying or on fire, I’m calling it a win.
Logan stretches his arm across the back of the couch, his fingers absent-mindedly playing with my hair while Gage is sprawled in the adjacent recliner, remote in hand, flipping through channels with the focus of someone looking to adequately hypnotize himself before bed.
“If you pass by that cooking competition one more time withoutstopping, I’m going to lose it—and you might lose an arm,” I warn, only half-teasing as I sink deeper into the cushions. “I need to see amateur chefs crying over burnt cookies to feel better about my own culinary disasters. Plus, it helps me unwind at night.”
Logan chuckles, and I can feel his chest strum against my shoulder. “What disasters? You make a mean toast.”
“It’s true, I’ve mastered the art of burning things,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. “But then, that’s why we keep Gage around. Someone has to feed the children—and us. And someone has to make sure we don’t starve.”
Gage rumbles a laugh. “You keep telling Logan that’s the only reason.” He gives a sly wink my way as he says it.
I shrug at Logan. “He can also reach the high shelves,” I tease as a tiny laugh trembles through me. “And he’s great at opening jars. And you should see what he can do with his?—”
A sharp knock erupts at the door before I can detail his talent for unclogging toilets and negotiating with the raccoons that keep getting in our trash. The knocking persists, and the three of us look that way.
Once again, there are three sharp raps—too deliberate for Tad, too gentle for Ezrina or Chloe.
I glance out the window and see the inky black sky. It’s late. And why do I get the sinking feeling nothing good is going to come of this visit?
“Please tell me we ordered Chinese food and I blocked it out,” I say, not moving from Logan’s warmth. “I would literally commit crimes for kung pao chicken right now.”
“I would, too, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t call for anything. Not unless supernatural drama delivers now,” Logan says, rising with me.
A supernatural drama delivery service? My gut says Logan is spot-on.
