Ethereal Page 5

  I scan the floor for any bras or underwear that may have gone undetected earlier. My clothes are native to the rug in the dead center of the room, which my mother has lovingly dubbed as the hamper.

  The room’s nothing special, and for sure nothing pretty since I’ve yet to unpack most of my personal things. The walls are still a dingy white. One day this summer I for sure want to paint it a really pretty green.

  “I’ll help.”

  “Help?” I let go of his hand and bounce over to the mattress. I pat the spot right next to me.

  “Paint your room.”

  “Are you kidding?” I bury my head in the pillow. I was so nervous about having him up here I completely forgot holding his hand was like inviting him front and center to listen in on my monologue about underwear.

  “And you hid things pretty well.” He reaches under the bed and yanks up a prize. The stuffed elephant I won at the county fair when I was eleven.

  “Give me that.” I laugh snatching the animal and hugging it hard across my chest. “Don’t touch him, he’s mine.”

  “So,” he digs his fingers into the hair at the base of my neck. “You want to know why I was at Michelle’s.” It comes out expressionless.

  “It’s none of my business where you go.” I drift my gaze over to the door—wonder if I locked it.

  “I locked it.” He smiles.

  “No reason to.” I say it cold.

  “Michelle has something I want.”

  “I hear most girls do.”

  “Not that. And no, most girls do not. You do.” He cocks his head to the side with a blatant flirtatious smile. “Something else. Something nobody else could give me.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Say.” I command.

  “It’s something of Chloe’s?”

  “Who’s going to care? What’s the price you’ll pay if you tell me?”

  “You’ll want it.” His brows raise a notch. “I’m pretty sure I’ll want to give it to you, at least in part.”

  “OK.” A lungful of air expresses through my lips. “Anybody ever tell you, you talk in circles?” I clasp the fingers of his other hand. He’s warm. I feel so comfortable sitting on my bed with him. It’s strange. “Are you sleeping with Michelle?”

  “No.”

  “Have you slept with Michelle?”

  “Almost, but that was months after Chloe died and I was a head case.”

  “You sleep with Chloe in my bedroom?” I shoot the words out low, with a quick assault.

  Our eyes lock, imprisoning one another in a dead serious gaze.

  “Yes.”

  I push back a good six inches towards the headboard. It doesn’t feel right being around Logan at this moment. I can feel a million stupid things wanting to exit my mouth all at once—every single one an excuse to kick him in the face.

  He doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans back on the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. A soft breath of exasperation streams out from him.

  “It’s not like you knew me then.” I immediately regret my word choice. Who am I anyway? I’m just some girl he’s met. He’s probably known Chloe all his life. She was probably the love of his life, and if I start a relationship with him now I’ll always be competing with a dead girl. “Just tell me about the touch, how we can hear.” All I want now is for Logan Oliver to spill all his deep dark secrets and get the hell out of my bedroom.

  He sits up and scoots over, careful not to touch me.

  “I think we should do this with words.” He touches his lips when he says it.

  “Afraid to let me in, much?”

  He shakes his head.

  “More like, afraid to hear you.” His voice is careful, like he’s treading lightly so he won’t get burned. “It only happened twice. It was stupid. Chloe and I…” he shakes his head again. “She was a good person, but not the right person for me.” He picks up my hand. “She wasn’t the best influence. By the time she disappeared we had already broken up, which put me at the top of the suspect list.”

  Logan is the last person I’d suspect in something like that.

  “Tell me what Michelle has.” I ask.

  “Her diary.”

  “Oh.”

  “She left something in it for me.” He pulls a face. “Anyway when I get it, I’m sure you’ll want to read it.” He picks up my hands again.

  I will, I say surprising myself with my honesty.

  I know. He blinks a smile.

  “So what about me? This thing?” I don’t want to talk about Chloe anymore, ever.

  He rattles my hand in the air and I take it back.

  “This thing. You said your dad did it?”

  “Yes. My mom and sister can’t.”

  “Your dad ever talk about his family? Do you know them?”

  “Just my grandma. She lives in a nursing home back in L.A. My mother left her there to rot.” Harsh, but true.

  “She ever talk about angels?”

  “All the time, but she’s senile. The doctors said it was one of her fixations. It was nonstop angels everyday, all the time.”

  “Well she might not be as senile as everybody thinks. The only other people that share our gift have Nephilim blood in them.”

  “Nephilim?” I draw back to get a better look at him.

  “Angels who chose their lust for women over their desire to remain on the frontlines for God. They came down and started families with human women as if they were one of them.”

  “Are you saying I’m part Nephilim?”

  “I’m pretty sure, but I’ll have to take a small vile of blood to be certain.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” My hearts races at the prospect. “I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

  “Well then, you’d make a lousy vampire.” His lips curve just shy of a smile.

  “And where do you send this vial? Angels-are-us?”

  “My uncle runs the mortuary. He has access to testing.”

  “Your uncle runs the mortuary? I thought your family ran the bowling alley?” Just the thought of a room full of dead bodies sends a chill up my spine.

  “My father owned the bowling alley. My uncle had it under management until he could pass it off to me. I’ve ran it into the ground since I was fourteen.” He shrugs. “I never claimed to be good at everything.”

  “Fourteen?”

  “I had help. Still do. But back to the topic at hand.” He pulls out a lighter, a small glass vial, and a scalpel from out of his pocket. “You ready to get the answers you’ve been looking for?”

  Chapter Twelve

  On Death and Dying

  The morgue is quiet and cold. It sits at the northern tip of the island surrounded by churches as though they needed the strength of brick and mortar to shelter the dead. Most likely it was convenience. The cemetery lies just behind the mortuary proper, no headstones, just long rows of glittering plaques.

  I talked my mother into letting Logan drive me home from church.

  “Skyla, this is my Uncle Barron, Gage’s dad.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand. He has a warm glow about him. He’s tall and shares the same stunning blue eyes as Gage.

  “Come into the kitchen.” He holds open one of the double doors, which leads into a stark white room with a long metal tray in the center. I blink twice at it before I realize the covered lump lying there is probably a body awaiting some sort of death prep, and I start to sway on my heels.

  “Chin up.” His uncle pinches my cheek, hard. “Sorry, I don’t have any smelling salts on me.”

  “No it’s OK.” It’s not a kitchen. It’s a place where no one should eat, ever.

  “You have any other gifts?” He asks me as he takes the vial from Logan.

  It’s hard to imagine that dark crimson liquid bubbling up at the top is what keeps me going. That it holds the secrets to my so-called life. That I produce it deep inside my bones—that everybody does—is nothing short of a m
iracle.

  “Gifts?” He asks again.

  “Um, no. I don’t think so. Do you?” I direct the last part towards Logan.

  “A few.”

  His uncle cuts in before he has the chance to elaborate.

  “What you have Skyla, is a unique gift. It’s the trademark of a special faction of Nephilim known as the Celestra.”

  “Celestra.” I try it out on my lips. It tickles as it rolls from my tongue.

  “Most Nephilim ‘round these parts are Lovatio. Once in a while you roll the genetic die and you get a win.”

  “A win?”

  “Celestra is the highest order of earthbound angels. They have the ability to rule and other amazing gifts that have them the most hated faction this side of the universe.”

  “Hated?” I give Logan a look of discontent. I’m not liking the idea of being hated, and by angels? That sounds illegal on a spiritual level and wrong on just about every other.

  “They’re also nearly all extinct. The Countenance faction, they’re the worst. We call them Counts for short. They cover the earth like vermin, demand money from everyone like the world owes it to them.”

  “Sounds like a twisted form of government.” I try to make light of the situation.

  “Oh, they’re in there too. They’re everywhere.”

  “So why are the Celestra nearly extinct?”

  He and Logan exchange somber glances.

  “Because my love,” His uncle taps my shoulder. “The Counts have them killed.”

  It takes a long trip around the outskirts of my mind to grasp onto one of my racing thoughts, and verbalize a semi coherent response. “Do I have a mark on my head? Did they kill my dad? Your parents?” I direct that last question towards Logan.

  “Yes, mostly likely yes, and definitely yes.” His uncle is mildly amused looking at me from over his frameless spectacles. “Logan’s parents produced a near pure Celestra. They couldn’t let them breed anymore.” He says it matter of fact as though it were a well-understood fact.

  “And my dad?”

  “He produced you. But most likely he was killed for his standing not his breeding. You mention your sister doesn’t seem to have this?”

  I shake my head. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. I’ve tested her on many occasions holding her hand while thinking the most outlandish things just trying to get a rise out of her. If she can hear me and she’s hiding the fact, she deserves an Oscar.

  “Then odds are the Counts don’t know about you yet. But they will. They have a strong sense of smell when it comes to these things. Don’t be remiss, they will kill you if they feel you’re a threat.”

  “Well, I’m not a threat.” I pump a short-lived smile.

  “You might be.” He tassels my hair before walking away.

  ***

  “We can’t always know who they are.” Logan says.

  We sit on a bench overlooking the cemetery. It’s so calm and peaceful. The sun has stretched her beams over the rolling hills and set her reflection off the grave markers, making them sparkle like a thousand pieces of broken glass.

  “Who else is Nephilim besides you and Gage?”

  “I just know us.” He shrugs. “There are a few people my uncle’s age. I only know this because they hold council meetings. Once in a while the meetings are on Paragon. When you reach the age of enlightenment, they graft you in—tell you all their secrets.” He wiggles his fingers when he says it. “It’s sort of like the big reveal.”

  “Why this certain age? They don’t trust us because we’re under age?”

  “Ageist bastards.” He laughs a little when he says it.

  “So how old do you have to be to know everything?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Shut up.” I push into him with my shoulder. You may as well not know anything if you have to wait all the way until you’re thirty. Thirty is practically on the verge of senility.

  “I’m serious. Thirty. Most Celestra die by then. Don’t worry, you and I will make it. I’ve got very strong assurance of this.”

  “And how pray tell do you know?” I like where’s he’s going. Even if his goal is to comfort me, it feels as though a giant casket has been lifted off my chest.

  “Because Gage told me. He knows things. That’s his gift.”

  “When did he say this?”

  “The day before I met you.” He says it with intentional earnestness.

  A light breeze picks up and the dreary afternoon is transformed into the perfect summer day. I couldn’t think of a better place to be than sitting in a cemetery with my favorite angel right by my side.

  “Me neither.” He gives a sly smile.

  He brushes his lips against mine, soft as a feather.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drama Mama

  As promised, I dig through box after box of the crap we’ve managed to hoard all these years. Honestly, I thought we threw so much stuff away before we left L.A. I didn’t think we’d have anything left to unpack.

  Piles of my elementary school art and Mia’s preschool endeavors gone awry, clutter up the boxes. Not one note from my father, not a lock of his hair, or his favorite tie. I wonder why my mother bothered keeping my sister and I. Obligation, or fear of prison.

  “You have any whites?” Mom breezes past me on the way to the laundry room, her arms already laden down with Tads dirty socks and underwear.

  “You ever regret turning into Tad’s live-in maid?” I call after her, taunting.

  “Don’t start a war you’re not willing to finish.” My mother bleats. A few crash and bangs later she reemerges, the sound of running water soothes the room from behind her.

  “I don’t see any of dad’s stuff.” There’s a note of defeat in my voice. I really don’t get why we need to erase someone just because they’re dead. Even Logan wants his dead girlfriend’s diary, which sucks in a big way, but that’s for another day.

  “It’s in there somewhere.” She pushes a broken wicker basket to the side with her foot and comes over to where I’m seated.

  “I think I want to put together a scrapbook. You know, of all the good times we used to have.”

  “What good times?” Her eyes widen with curiosity, pale as stones.

  I’m pretty sure she’s not trying to get me riled up, although it’s backfiring on her big time.

  “Come on mom. You remember the good times.” I don’t let her hear my disappointment even though this blatant dumb blonde shit she’s trying to pull is really pissing me off.

  “I don’t remember too many of those, just a lot of yelling—no money.” She picks up a deck of playing cards and pulls them out of the sleeve. “Anything in particular you want to share with me?”

  Not really. But I don’t say that, I say, “All you remember about daddy is yelling and no money?” The sky outside the window darkens, and the driving wind pushes the branch of a eucalyptus across the glass.

  “It was hard for the two of us. We had you when we were both so young.”

  “So you’re saying I’m the reason you and daddy had a rough go of it?” I struggle to keep it together.

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” She rubs her hand into her eyes full with regret. “What I’m trying to say is—oh hell Sky, I don’t know. It was hard and it was even harder when he died. Thank God for Tad because without him…”

  I hop to my feet and skip up the stairs two by two. I’d rather sit alone in my bedroom with Chloe’s ghost. Maybe she’ll detail to me how Logan touched her, how it felt to have him wanting her. I’ll take anything over my mother right about now.

  ***

  I walk around my room in a slow methodical circle. I tap the walls and say her name, daring her to come to me.

  My mother doesn’t bother coming up to repair any damage that may have occurred during our hostile verbal scrimmage. Seems our relationship is on the path to steady deterioration, and neither of us really gives a shit.

  “Where are you Chloe? Afraid Logan might li
ke me just a little bit more?” I whisper the words into the walls as though it were a part of her. “I would have had him anyway.”