He gestures deeper into the mansion, and I follow him into the great room filled with expensive furniture and artwork, straight from the Rococo era. The piano in the main sitting room sits silent for now, but I know it won’t stay that way for long. Supernatural houses have their own ideas about ambiance, especially this one.
“Now then,” Marshall says, turning to face me with that intensity that makes it hard to think straight, “what’s so urgent that you needed to abandon the Pretty One’s bowling alley and recruit Ms. Miller as your chauffeur?”
I’m about to explain the whole desperate situation regarding my sudden and rather urgent need to contact Candace when Ezrina MacHatter emerges from the kitchen like something out of a tangle-haired nightmare.
Her crazy red tresses fly above her head like a tumbleweed, her pale face is lost in wild curls that seem to move of their own volition, and her thin red lips sit like a streak of blood against her porcelain skin. Once upon a time, Ezrina hated me with the kind of passion most people reserve for their worst enemies, and the look she gives me now could probably turn me to stone without the Medusa pedigree.
“Oh my goodness, Ezrina, I’m so glad you’re here!” I shout, rushing toward her with my arms outstretched for a big, fat hug.
But apparently, a hug—fat, skinny, or invisible—is not in the cards. Instead, Ezrina hisses like an angry cat before recoiling at the sight of me. “Stay back, you cursed creature!”
“Ezrina, it’s okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice soothing and non-threatening, which is rich coming from someone who’s literally never been okay a day in her life. “I’m from the future, andwe’re friends now. In fact, things work out really well between you and Nev, too. You end up being incredibly happy together.”
The shriek that comes out of Ezrina’s mouth shatters at least six different windows. No, seriously, glass is everywhere.
I cringe over at Marshall and mouth a quicksorry.
But Ezrina isn’t sorry. She hisses twice as loud, her eyes blazing with a newfound fury. “Blasphemy! Lies and blasphemy!”
She whirls toward Marshall with a threat in her eyes. “Sector, we will continue our conversation later.”
She turns back to me, and the hatred radiating from her is thicker than Paragon fog. “Cursed be you and your Celestra! You’ve destroyed us all!”
“Ezrina, wait!” I call after her. “I know you’re one of us, too!”
But she’s already disappearing in a giant cloud of red stars that sparkle and fade, leaving behind only the faint scent of sulfur and wounded pride in her wake.
“I’ve witnessed natural disasters with better outcomes,” Marshall says mildly.
“She really doesn’t like me.”
“That’s like saying the Black Plague was a minor cold.” Marshall moves closer, and suddenly the piano in the next room begins playing a slow, haunting, dare I say, romantic melody. “But now we’re finally alone.”
Before I can protest, he slides an arm around my waist and begins to sway to the music, pulling me into an impromptu slow dance right where we stand. And sweet heavens, the man can dance. He moves with the kind of fluid grace that should probably come with a warning label, and he smells like trouble wrapped in designer cologne with a side of bad decisions ahead.
“Are you ready to make a few bad decisions?” he murmurs against my ear.
I gasp and pull back slightly. “Why do I always forget that you can read my mind?”
“One of my many talents.” His smile is pure sin. “Though I must say, your thoughts are particularly flattering tonight.”
“Marshall.” I try to inject some seriousness into my voice, which is difficult when he’s spinning me around his mansion as if we’re in some kind of supernatural ballroom. “Logan and I want out. We want to go back to where we belong, to a future where we haven’t scrambled the past like a bad batch of eggs.”
His eyebrow arches in that way that suggests he knows something I don’t. “Do you honestly believe that?”
“Believe what?”
“That your mother doesn’t realize exactly what’s happening. That any of this is an accident.”
The implication stops me cold. “You think she knows we’re turning the timeline into a supernatural omelet?”
“I think Candace Messenger doesn’t do anything by accident.” Marshall dips me so dramatically that I have to claw at his shoulders to keep from falling. “But you want to talk to her anyway.”
“Ineedto talk to her,” I correct. “Things are going haywire, and whether she knows it or not, I need your help getting her here. Besides, I’m starting to feel like we overstayed our welcome. I want out. I want home. I want endless snuggles with my children. I need you to contact my mother. That’s a direct order from your future wife.”
His grin is slow and wicked. “My future wife.” He pulls me closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I do like the sound of that. Say it again.”
“Marshall—”
