Demetri’s grin gleams with dark promise. “Why, I plan to beat Candace at her own game, of course. After all, I’ve had centuries to perfect the art of manipulation. She might be good, but I’m better.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Comforting.”
“Isn’t it?” Demetri agrees, completely missing my sarcasm. “Now, unless you plan to stay for dinner, I suggest you return to your respective hovels and let me handle this situation. I have some very important phone calls to make. Very long distance.”
Logan growls, “We’re supposed to trust you?”
“You’re supposed to recognize that I’m the only one standing between your children and oblivion.” Demetri’s voice carries a note of steel beneath the velvet. “But by all means, if you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”
The terrible thing is, he’s right. We don’t have a better plan. We don’t have any plan at all, except blind panic and the desperate hope that somehow, someway, we can save our children from being obliterated into nothingness. We’re not looking for “another crop of chaos agents,” to quote Demetri; we’re looking to protect the children we already have.
I grab Logan’s arm and nod toward the door. “Let’s go. We got what we came for.”
Marshall snaps his head my way. “Have we?”
“We know where we stand.” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “And apparently, we’re standing with the king of wickedness himself.”
We take off for the foyer without so much as a goodbye.
“Oh, and Skyla?” Demetri’s voice follows us, silky and dangerous. “Give my regards to your mother when you see her next. Please tell her I said hello.”
The way he says it makes every last hair on my body stand on end.
We step back out into the fog and start the journey back to where we came from, each of us lost in our own thoughts about this latest revelation. The mist seems thicker now, and far more oppressive, as if it’s trying to put us out of our misery and smother us with its weight. A part of me wishes it would. Death by Paragon fog. That sounds oddly poetic.
“Well,” Marshall says eventually, his voice cutting through the silence, “that was educational.”
Logan shakes his head. “That was terrifying.”
“That was necessary.” I pull my jacket tighter against the chill. “Now we know what we’re really up against.”
Sometimes the truth isn’t meant to set you free—it’s meant to show you just how trapped you really are.
35
Skyla
The fog wraps around us like some kind of supernatural security blanket as we book it back where we came from, our footsteps getting swallowed up by a mist so thick I can barely see Logan three feet away from me.
The scent of pine needles and salty air mixes with something that tastes like electricity—probably leftover dark energy from hanging out in Demetri’s wicked lair.
In the distance, Ellis’ party is still going strong, the bass thumping like the world’s most obnoxious heartbeat.
Marshall keeps perfect pace beside us without even breaking a sweat, which is honestly insulting considering Logan and I sound like we just ran a triathlon—of course, Marshall’s feet never once touched the ground.
Despite the fact that we literally just discovered my mother wants to delete my children from existence and our only backup plan involves trusting the devil of Paragon, Marshall has thatinsufferable smirk that makes me want to introduce his face to the pavement.
“You realize,” Marshall says, not even winded from our sprint, “your mother just played you like a vintage violin.”
One from the seventeenth century, I’m guessing. That would be Marshall’s favorite season for treason, among other things.
My lungs burn as I try to catch my breath. “Thanks for the update. I really needed that insight right now.”
“I’m simply pointing out the obvious.” He adjusts his cuffs as if we’re at a dinner party instead of fleeing from my homicidal mother’s timeline terrorism. “She needed you compliant, so she fed you a story about protection. Classic Candace.”
Logan’s jaw redefined itself. “How long have you known?”
“About her plan? Oh, I’ve had my suspicions since you two started acting like lovesick teenagers again. The real question is,” Marshall’s eyes gleam with that dangerous curiosity of his, “what are you planning to do about it? Because running to Demetri suggests desperation, and desperate people make fascinating choices.”
