I take a deep breath and climb out of my car, knowing the only way to get answers is to keep moving. The soles of my cold wet feet slipping along the dew-covered walkway as I fumble for the key, remembering too late that I left it at home, never dreaming I'd need it tonight of all nights. I stand before the front door, memorizing its curving arch, mahogany finish, and bold, detailed carvings, before I close my eyes and picture another just like it. Seeing my imaginary door unlock and swing open, never having tried this before, but knowing it's possible after seeing Damen unlock a gate at our school—a gate that'd been decidedly locked just a few moments before.
But when I open my eyes again, all I've managed to manifest is another giant wood door. And having no idea how to dispose of it (since up until now I've only manifested things I wanted to keep), I lean it against the wall and head toward the back. There's a window in his kitchen, the one just behind the sink that he always leaves cracked. And after sliding my fingers under the rim and pushing the window all the way up, I crawl over a sink overflowing with empty glass bottles before jumping to the ground, my feet landing with a muffled thud as I wonder ifbreaking and entering applies to concerned girlfriends too. I gaze around the room, taking in the wooden table and chairs, the rack of stainless steel pots, the high-tech coffeemaker, blender, and juicer—all part of the collection of the most modern kitchen gadgets money can buy (or Damen can manifest). Carefully selected to give the appearance of a normal, well-to-do life, like accessories in a beautifully decorated model home, perfectly staged and completely unused.
I peer into his fridge, expecting to see the usual abundant supply of red juice, only to find just a few bottles instead. And when I peek inside his pantry, the place where he allows the newer batches to ferment or marinate or whatever they do in the dark for three days—I'm shocked to find that it's barely stocked too. I stand there, staring at the handful of bottles, my stomach thrumming, my heart racing, knowing something's terribly wrong with this picture. Damen's always so obsessive about keeping plenty of juice on hand—even more so now that he's responsible for supplying me—that he would never allow things to get to this point. But then again, he's also been going through an awfullot of it lately, chugging it to the point where his consumption has nearly doubled. So it's entirely possible he hasn't had time to make a new batch. Which sounds good in theory, sure, but it's not at all plausible.
I mean, who am I fooling? Damen's extremely organized with these things, even bordering on obsessive. He would never let his brewing duties slide—not for one day. Not unless something was terribly wrong. And even though I don't have any proof, I just knowin my gut that the way he's been acting so off lately—with the sudden blank looks that are impossible to miss no matter how quickly they fade, not to mention the sweating, the headaches, the inability to manifest everyday objects, or access the Summerland portal—well, when I add it all up, it's clear that he's sick.
Only Damen doesn't get sick.
And when he pricked his finger on that thorny rose just a little while ago, I watched as it healed right before me. But still, maybe I should start calling the hospitals—just to be sure. Except Damen would never go to the hospital. He'd see it as a sign of weakness, defeat. He's far more likely to crawl off like a wounded animal, hiding out somewhere where he could be alone. Only he doesn't have any wounds because they instantly heal. Besides, he'd never crawl off without telling me first.
Then again, I was also convinced he'd never drive off without me, and look how that turned out. I riffle through his drawers, searching for the Yellow Pages—yet another accessory in his quest to seem normal. Because while it's true that Damen would never take himself to the hospital, if there were an accident, or some other event beyond his control, then it's possible that someone else might've taken him without his consent. And while that completely contradicts Roman's (most likely bogus) story of watching Damen speed away, that doesn't stop me from calling every hospital in Orange County, asking if a Damen Auguste has been admitted, and coming up empty each time.
When the last hospital is called, I consider calling the police but quickly decide against it. I mean, what would I say? That my six-hundred-year-old immortal boyfriend went missing? I'd have just as much luck cruising Coast Highway, searching for a black BMW with dark tinted windows and a good-looking driver inside—the proverbial needle in the haystack of Laguna Beach. Or—I can always just settle in here, knowing he's got to turn up eventually. And as I climb the stairs to his room, I comfort myself with the thought that if I can't be with him, then at least I can be with his things. And as I settle myself upon his velvet settee, I gaze among the things he prizes the most, hoping I'm still one of them too.
Chapter Fifteen
My neck hurts. And my back feels weird. And when I open my eyes and glimpse my surroundings—I know why. I spent, the night in this room. Right here on this ancient velvet settee, which was originally intended for light banter, coquettish flirting, but definitely not sleeping.
I struggle to stand, my muscles tightening in protest as I stretch toward the sky then down toward my toes. And after bending my torso from side to side and swiveling my neck to and fro, I head over to his thick velvet drapes and yank them aside. Flooding the room with a light so bright my eyes water and sting, barely having enough time to adjust before I've closed them again. Ensuring the edges overlap and no amount of sunlight is allowed to creep in, returning the space to its usual state of permanent midnight, having been warned by Damen that those harsh Southern California rays can wreak havoc on the contents of this room. Damen.
Just thinking about him makes my heart swell with such longing, such all-consuming ache—my head grows dizzy and my whole body sways. And as I grab hold of an elaborate wood cabinet, grasping its fine detailed edge, my eyes search the room, reminding me that I'm not nearly as alone as I think. Everywhere I look his image surrounds me. His likeness perfectly captured by the world's greatest masters, matted in museum quality frames, and mounted on these walls. The Picasso in the dark somber suit, the Velazquez on the rearing white stallion—each of them depicting the face I thought I knew so well—only now the eyes seem distant and mocking, the chin raised and defiant, and those lips, those warm wonderful lips that I crave so bad I can taste them, appear so remote, so aloof, so maddeningly distant, as though warning me not to come near.
I close my eyes, determined to block it all out, sure that my panicked state of mind is influencing me forthe worst. Forcing myself to take several deep breaths, before trying his cell phone again. His voice mail prompting yet another round of: Call me... where are you... what happened... are you okay... call me—messages I've left countless times already. I slip my phone back into my bag and gaze around the room one last time, my eyes carefully avoiding his portraits while assuring myself there's nothing I missed. No blatant clue to his disappearance that I might've overlooked, no small, seemingly insignificant hint that might make the how and why a little easier to grasp.
And when I'm satisfied I've done all I can, I grab my purse and head to the kitchen, stopping just long enough to leave a short note, repeating all the same words I said on the phone. Knowing the moment I walk out the door my connection to Damen will feel even more tenuous than it already does. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, picturing the future that just yesterday seemed so sure—the one of Damen and me, both of us happy, together, complete. Wishing it was possible to manifest such a thing, yet knowing deep down it's no use.
You can't manifest, another person. Or at least not for very long.
So I shift my attention to something I can create. Picturing the most perfect red tulip—its soft waxy petals and long fluid stem the ideal symbol for our undying love. And when I feel it take shape in my hand, I head back to the kitchen, tear up the note, and leave the tulip on the counter instead.
Chapter Sixteen
I miss Riley.
I miss her so much It's like a physical ache. Because the second I realized I had no choice but to in
form Sabine that Damen wouldn't be making it to dinner (which I waited to do until ten minutes past eight when it was clear he wouldn't show), the questions began. And they pretty much kept coming for the remainder of the weekend, with her asking stuff like: What's wrong? I know something's wrong. I wish you would talk to me. Why won't you tell me? Is it something with Damen? Are you two in a fight? And even though I did talk to her (over dinner when I somehow managed to eat enough to convince her that I really and truly do not have an eating disorder), trying to assure her that everything was A-OK, that Damen was just busy, and that I was overtired after spending such a long, fun-filled night at Haven's—it was clear she didn't believe me. Or at least not thepart about me being fine. She totally believed the part about me staying at Haven's.
Instead, she kept insisting that there had to be a better explanation for my constant sighing and mood swings, the way I went from morose to manic to mopey and back again. But even though I felt bad for lying to her—I stuck with my story. I guess it seemed easier since lying to Sabine made it easier to lie to myself. Fearing that retelling the story, explaining how even though my heart refuses to believe it, my head can't help but wonder if he might've purposely ditched me—might somehow make it come true. If Riley were here, things would be different. I could talk to her. I could tell her the whole sordid tale from beginning to end. Knowing she'd not only understand, but that she'd get answers too. Her being dead is like an all-access pass. Allowing her to go anywhere she wants merely by thinking about it. Making no place off limits—the entire planet is fair game. And I've no doubt she'd be far more effective than all of my frantic phone calls and drive-bys combined. Because in the end, all my disjointed, clumsy, ineffective investigating really amounts to is: _________(nothing).
Leaving me just as clueless this Monday morning as I was on Friday night when it occurred. And no matter how many times I call Miles or Haven, their answer is always the same—nothing to report, but we'll call you if anything changes. But if Riley were here, she'd close this case in no time. Getting quick results and in-depth answers—she'd be able to tell me just exactly what I'm dealing with, and how to proceed. But the fact is, Riley's not here. And despite her promising me a sign, seconds before she left, I'm starting to doubt it'll happen. And maybe, just maybe, it's time I stop looking and get on with my life. I slip on some jeans, slide my feet into some flipflops, pull on a tank top, and chase it with a long-sleeved T—and just as I'm about to walk out the door and head for school, I turn right around and grab my iPod, hoodie, and sunglasses, knowing I'd better prepare for the worst since I've no idea what I'll find.
"Did you find him?"
I shake my head, watching as Miles climbs into my car, throws his bag on the floor, and shoots me a look filled with pity.
"I tried calling," he says, brushing his hair off his face, his nails still sporting a bright flashy pink, "Even tried to swing by his house but didn't get past the front gate. And trust me, you do not want to mess with Big Sheila. She takes her job very seriously." He laughs, hoping to lighten the mood.
But I just shrug, wishing I could laugh along with him, but knowing I can't. I've been a wreck since Friday and the only cure is to see Damen again.
"You shouldn't worry so much," Miles says, turning toward me. "I'm sure he's fine. I mean, it's not like it's the first time he's disappeared."
I glance at him, sensing his thoughts before the words leave his lips. Knowing he's referring to the last time Damen disappeared, the time I sent him away. "But that was different," I tell him. "Trust me, that was nothing like this."
"How can you be so sure?" His voice is careful, measured, his eyes still on me. I take a deep breath and stare at the road, wondering whether or not I should tell him I mean, I haven't really talked to anyone in so long, haven't confided in a friend since well before the accident—before everything changed. And sometimes, having to hoard all of these secrets can really feel lonely. I long to get out from under their weight and gossip like a normal girl again. I look at Miles, sure that I can trust him, but not all that sure if I can trust me. I'm like a soda can that's been dropped and shaken, and now all of my secrets are rushing to the top.
"You okay?" he asks, eyeing me carefully.
I swallow hard. "Friday night? After your play?" I pause, knowing I've got his full attention. "Well... we, um... we sort of made plans."
"Plans?" He leans toward me.
"Big plans." I nod, a smile hinting at the corner of my lips, then instantly fading when I remember how it all went so tragically wrong.
"How big?" he asks, eyes on mine.
I shake my head, gazing at the road ahead when I say, "Oh, just your usual Friday night. You know, room at the Montage, new lingerie, chocolate dipped strawberries, and two flutes of champagne..."
"Omigod, you didn't !" he squeals.
I glance at him, watching as his face falls when he realizes the truth.
"Oh God, I mean, you really didn't. You didn't get a chance to, since he..." He looks at me. "Oh Ever, I'm so sorry."
I shrug, seeing the devastation I feel so clearly displayed on his face.
"Listen," he says, reaching for my arm as I stop at a light, then pulling away when he remembers how I don't like to be touched by anyone other than Damen, not blowing that it's only because I go out of my way to avoid any and all unsolicited energy exchange. "Ever, you're gorgeous, seriously. I mean, especially now that you stopped wearing those dumpy hoodies and baggy—" He shakes his head. "Anyway, I think it's safe to say that there's no way Damen would have willingly walked out on you. I mean, let's face it, the guy's totally in love, anyone can see it. And believe me, with the way you two are constantly going at it, everyone has seen it. There's just no possible way he could've bailed!"
I glance at him, wanting to remind him of what Roman said about Damen speeding away, and how I have this terrible feeling he's somehow connected, maybe even responsible—but just as I'm about to, I realize I can't. I've no evidence to go on, nothing to prove it.
"You call the police?" he asks, his expression suddenly serious. I press my lips together and squint at the light straight ahead, hating the fact that I did indeed call the cops.
Knowing that if everything turns out to be fine, and Damen shows up unscathed, he's going to be pretty unhappy about my drawing that kind of attention his way. But what was I supposed to do? I mean, if there was an accident or something, I figured they'd be the first to know. So Sunday morning, I went down to the station and filed a report, answering all of the usual questions like: male, Caucasian, brown eyes, brown hair... Until we got to his age and I nearly choked when I almost said: um... he's approximately six hundred and seventeen years old...
"Yeah, I filed a report," I finally say, pressing hard on the gas the second the light turns green and watching the speedometer rise. "They took down the info and said they'd look into it."
"That's it? Are you kidding? He's underage, he's not even an adult!"
"Yeah, but he's also emancipated. Which is like a whole other set of circumstances, making him legally responsible for himself, and other things I don't quite understand. Anyway, it's not like I'm privy to their investigation techniques, it's not like they filled me in on the big plan," I say, slowing to a more normal speed, now that we've entered the school zone. "Do you think we should pass out flyers? Or hold a candlelight vigil like you see on the news?"
My stomach curls when he says it, even though I know he's just being his usual overly dramatic, though well-meaning self. But up until now, I hadn't imagined it ever coming to that. I mean, surely Damen will show up soon. He's got to. He's immortal! What could possibly happen to him? But no sooner do I think it than I pull into the parking lot and see him climbing out of his car. Looking so sleek, so sexy, so gorgeous—you'd think everything was perfectly normal. That the last few days had never occurred.
I slam on the brakes, my car lurching forward then back, causing the driver behind me to slam on their brakes too. My heart rac
ing, my hands shaking, as I watch my completely gorgeous, up until now MIA boyfriend, run a hand through his hair so deliberately, so insistently, and with such focused concentration you'd think it was his most pressing concern. This is not what I expected.
"What the hell?" Miles shrieks, gaping at Damen as a whole slew of cars honk behind us. "And what's he doing parked all the way over there? Why isn't he in the second-best spot, saving the best one for us?" And since I don't know the answers to any of those questions, I pull up beside Damen, thinking he might. I lower my window, feeling inexplicably shy and awkward when he merely glances at me before looking away.
"Urn, is everything okay?" I ask, wincing when he just barely nods, which is pretty much the most imperceptible acknowledgment of my presence he could possibly give. He reaches into his car and grabs his bag, taking the opportunity to admire himself in the driver's side window as I swallow hard and say, "Because you sort of took off Friday night... and I couldn't find you or reach you all weekend... and I got kinda worried... I even left you some messages... did you get them?" I press my lips together and cringe at my pathetic, ineffective, wuss-laden inquiry. You sort of took off? I got kinda worried? When what I really want to scream is: HEY YOU IN THE SUPER-SLICK ALL-BLACK ENSEMBLE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?
Watching as he slips his bag onto his shoulder and gazes at me, his quick powerful stride closing the distance between us in a handful of seconds. But only the physical distance, not the emotional one, because when I look into his eyes they seem miles away.
And just when I realize I've been holding my breath, he leans into the window, his face close to mine when he says, "Yeah. I got your messages. All fifty-nine of them." I can feel his warm breath on my cheek as my mouth drops open and my eyes search his, seeking the heat his gaze always provides, and shivering when I come away cold, dark, and empty. Though it's nothing like the lack of recognition I glimpsed the other day. No, this is far worse. Because now when I look in his eyes—it's clear that he knows me—he just wishes he didn't.