I stop pacing and stare at him. “You’re right.”
Candace Messenger sits on just about every council that determines celestial law for faction disputes. Taking her to celestial court would be like asking her to prosecute herself. I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can stop myself from spinning in a circle.
“But there has to be some kind of oversight committee that keeps celestial beasts in check,” a roar of thunder shakes the earth, probably sent straight from the beast in question, “some higher authority?—”
“There is. It’s called the Decision Council, and your mother is one of its most influential members.”
“So, what you’re saying is we’re completely screwed.”
“In terms of conventional legal recourse, yes.”
I resume pacing, and my frustration only seems to build with each step. “If only I could see the future, and how IwishI could see the future—ironically not the one that I was a participating member of. If I could just get a glimpse of what she’s really planning, maybe I could figure out how to stop it.”
Marshall sheds a devilish grin that makes my stomach drop to middle earth.
“No way,” I say immediately, recognizing that lusty look of his. “Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. That expression says everything, and the answer is flat-out no.”
“You don’t even know what I was thinking.”
“You were thinking about the fact that kissing you would give me a vision of the future. And you were wondering if maybe this would be a good time to use that prehensile tongue of yours to get a little action.”
Okay, so I know I’ve talked ad nauseam about Marshall’s prehensile tongue, but not only is it true, it bears repeating. That thing has its own skill set, resume, and probably a LinkedIn profile. Michelle Miller once fainted just watching him eat an ice cream cone. I nearly fainted, too.
“Messenger!” a cheerful voice cuts through our increasingly tense conversation, and I turn to see Ellis Harrison emerging from the tree line with that particular brand of stoned confidence that only he can pull off.
His sandy blond hair falls across his forehead in waves, his eyes are red and glossy—red, white, and blue, as he likes to point out because he’s the all-American boy when he gets stoned—but regardless of his chemically altered state, there’s something genuinely sweet about Ellis that makes it impossible not to love him.
“Ellis,” I say, genuinely happy to see him despite the terrible timing. “What are you doing, lurking in the woods?”
Ellis gives a slight nod, and his glossy eyes glitter with what little light Paragon has doled out. “Kegger at my place tonight. I’ll provide the booze; you provide the hoes. I want the entire cheer squad front and center. And the rest of your friends, too—just the hot ones.”
I’d love to frown at him, but I can’t help but smile. He’s just so genuinely Ellis. That’s one thing the past is good at giving us—the most genuine versions of ourselves, albeit unpolished for the most part. Or in Ellis’ case, very thorny and horny version—not that he’s changed.
“I don’t have any friends outside of the bitch squad,” I tell him. And even that’s debatable.
“Language,” Marshall grumbles under his breath, and I shrug up at him in lieu of an apology.
Ellis scoffs my way. “Then have Chloe bring her hot friends. We need more girls.”
I shake my head. “I hate to break it to you, but Chloe doesn’t specialize in friends either. She specializes in enemies.”
True as gospel in the past, present, and the future. I’ll give it to Chloe, she’s dependably toxic.
“I’ll provide the girls,” Marshall says tersely, and I can tell he’s trying to get rid of Ellis so we can carry on with the circular conversation at hand—but according to that glimmer in Marshall’s eye, I can tell he’s dead serious, too. He glances my way and frowns. “There happens to be a meeting at my house tonight. A group of my friends is dropping by from England. Women, of course.”
“Of course.” Now it’s me frowning. “Did you say England?” I can’t help but frown at him twice as hard. “Or more to the point, that jolly old porthole from days of yore by way of that haunted mirror? Marshall, are you hauling in those seventeenth-century hoes again so soon? Isn’t there some kind of cooling-off period required between historical hooker conventions? I mean, Emma runs the HOA around those parts with an iron Oliver fist—surely there are regulations about supernatural brothel activities.”
Want to hang red curtains? Emma Oliver will hang you.
Ellis inches back and looks momentarily perplexed, and for the life of me, I can’t remember if Ellis is caught up to speed at this point on Marshall’s obsession with hookers from yesteryear.
Heck, I’m not sure if I’m technically caught up to speed on all things Marshall Dudley at this point in time.
It’s one thing to light drive to the past, it’s another to remember what goes where and when. As with most things, I blame my mother for this.
