A lively wench in a hot pink gown and bright orange hair steps in. “I’ll kiss every inch of ya, and make it better.” The entire lot of them breaks out in boisterous laughter.
Another hussy in a lime green gown paws at his face. “I volunteer as nurse. Full body examination, no charge.”
“Marshall,” I extract him from their midst. “Are you okay?”
This causes another peal of laughter to filter through the place.
“I’ll live. Though I suspect my ego might need medical attention.” He lifts a brow to see if I’ll volunteer for the effort before he decides to farm it out.
But before I can respond, Logan steps in, his face cycling through expressions like a slot machine—shock, confusion, barely contained rage. He walks over to me, ignoring Marshall entirely.
“What did you see?” Logan’s voice cuts through the room like a gunshot.
The vision still burns behind my eyes, nothing but faction wars and empty spaces where laughter should be. My hands shake as I grip his arm. “The war goes on as planned, but our children—they’ve beenerased. All of them, Logan. It’s like they never existed.”
Logan’s face drains of color before a rage so pure takes over, it makes the air around us crackle. “We need to speak to her right away.”
“No.” I grab his arm as he starts toward the door, my fingers digging into his jacket. “We need to speak to someone else.”
“Who?” Logan growls with venom.
“Demetri.”
Logan stares at me like I’ve just suggested we have tea with the devil. His mouth opens and closes twice before words come out.
“Demetri?” he sighs hard. “I’d rather light myself on fire.”
Marshall grunts, “That can be arranged, but it won’t solve the problem.”
I shoot him a look before reverting to Logan. “If Candace is plotting to erase our children from existence, I want to know if her ex-boyfriend is in on it like she suggested.”
Logan’s head tilts as he processes this. “That’s...” He pauses to run his fingers through his hair. “Actually, not a terrible idea.”
I grab his hand and pull him toward the door, my heels clicking urgently against Marshall’s marble floor. “Come on. We’re going to get some answers, and we’re going to get them now.”
We burst out of Marshall’s mansion and into the Paragon night, where the fog has thickened to the point I can barely see my own feet. The eerie moon cuts through the mist in patches, casting everything in silver light and dark shadows while the bass from Ellis’ party thrums faintly in the distance like a dying heartbeat.
“We should probably drive,” Logan says, squinting into the murky darkness.
“Let’s take the fun way, instead.”
Within seconds, we tap into that supernatural speed that comes with being members of the factions, feeling that familiar electric tingle race through my veins as our speed defies logic and gravity.
Logan matches my pace as we tear across the island, our feet barely touching the ground as we move through the fog like bullets through cotton. Pine trees blur into dark smears, rocky outcroppings become mere suggestions along the landscape, and the occasional glimpse ofthe Pacific Ocean flickers through the mist like a broken television. The sounds from the party fade to nothing, replaced by the wind rushing past our ears and the distant crash of waves against invisible shorelines.
Halfway to Demetri’s estate, Marshall materializes beside us, his coat billowing dramatically as he keeps perfect pace despite his recent encounter with Gage’s fist, only it doesn’t look as if Marshall is running, more like floating.
“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” he says with a tip of his head.
Demetri’s mansion rises from the fog like something from a Gothic nightmare, with its imposing spires and stone gargoyles that seem to track our every move with eyes that glint in the moonlight.
The place dwarfs Marshall’s estate, sprawling across grounds that stretch into the mist and disappear entirely. Warm light spills from dozens of windows, revealing glimpses of supernatural artifacts and mounted trophies. I hate everything about this place, but right now, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t hate Demetri just yet.
We storm through the front doors without bothering to knock—because honestly, when you’re dealing with the devil himself, social niceties seem a bit pointless.
The interior of Demetri’s castle screams wealth and ego in equal measure. Ceilings soar at least thirty feet high, supported by carved columns that were probably yanked straight from Rome.
Portraits of beautiful women line the walls in ornate frames, and I can’t help but notice several of them bear an unsettling resemblance to my mother—the one who raised me. Each one is a little more revealing than the last. And in each one my mother looks to be in the throes of ecstasy. Heaven help. How have I never noticed these before? Most likely I’ve trauma-blocked them from my memory.
