“Whatever it takes to get you back in this car.” I smile, having listened to the story (many times) of his time spent in India learning transcendental meditation right alongside them, back when John and Paul wrote most of these songs. “In fact, if I’ve manifested it correctly, then that stereo will play nothing but the Beatles from now on.”
“How am I ever going to adapt to the twenty-first century if you’re determined to keep me rooted in the past?” He laughs.
“I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t adapt,” I mumble, gazing out the window at a blur of darkness and light. “Change is overrated—or at least your more recent changes are. So what do you say? Is she a keeper? Can we banish the big ugly mommy mobile?”
I turn toward him, watching as he exits the freeway and makes a series of sharp turns before climbing a very steep hill and stopping before a sculpture in front of a huge limestone building.
“What’s this?” I squint, knowing we’re somewhere in L.A. from the look and feel of the town, but not exactly sure where.
“The Getty.” He smiles, setting the brake and jumping out to open my door. “Have you been?”
I shake my head and avoid his gaze. An art museum is about the last place I expected—or even wanted—to go.
“But—isn’t it closed?” I glance around, sensing we’re the only ones here, other than the armed guards who are probably stationed inside.
“Closed?” He looks at me and shakes his head. “You think I’m going to let something as mundane as that stop us?” He slips his arm around me and leads me up the stone steps, lips at my ear when he adds, “I know a museum’s not your first choice, but trust me, I’m about to prove a very good point. One that, from what you just said, clearly needs illustrating.”
“What? That you know more about art than I do?”
He stops, his face serious when he says, “I’m going to prove that the world really is our oyster. Our playground. Whatever we want it to be. There’s no need to ever feel bored or to get into a rut once you understand that the normal rules no longer apply—at least not for us. We can do anything we want, Ever, anything at all. Open, closed, locked, unlocked, welcome, unwelcome—none of it matters, we do what we want—when we want. There’s nothing or no one who can stop us.”
Not entirely true, I think, ruminating on the very thing we’ve never been able to do in the past four hundred years, which, of course, is the one thing I really want us to do.
But he just smiles, kissing me on the forehead before grasping my hand, leading me to the door as he says, “Besides, there’s an exhibit I’m dying to see, and since there’s no crowd it shouldn’t take long. And I promise, after, we can go wherever you want.”
I stare at the imposing locked doors rigged with the most high-tech alarms that are probably rigged to other high-tech alarms, that are surely rigged to machine gun–wielding guards with their fingers just itching to press the trigger. Heck, there’s probably a hidden camera trained on us now, and a not amused guard tucked somewhere inside ready to push the panic button under his desk.
“Are you seriously going to try and break in?” I gulp, palms damp, heart clattering against my chest, hoping he’s joking even though he clearly is not.
“No,” he whispers, closing his eyes and urging me to close mine. “I’m not going to try, I’m going to succeed. And if you don’t mind, you could really help this along by closing your eyes and following my lead.” Leaning even closer, lips at my ear when he adds, “And I promise, no one gets caught, hurt, or jailed. Really. Cross my heart.”
I peer at him, assuring myself that someone who’s lived for six hundred years has survived his share of scrapes. Then I take a deep breath and plunge in. Copying the series of steps he envisions until the doors spring open, the sensors turn off, and the guards all fall into a long deep sleep. Or at least I hope it’s long and deep. Long and deep would be good.
“Ready?” He looks at me, lips curving into a grin.
I hesitate, hands shaking, eyes darting, thinking that rut we were in is starting to look pretty good. Then I swallow hard and step in, cringing when my rubber sole meets the polished stone floor, resulting in the most high-pitched, screechy, cringe-worthy sound.
“What do you think?” he says, face eager, excited, hoping I’m enjoying myself as much as he. “I considered taking you to Summerland, but then I figured that’s exactly what you’d expect. So I decided to show you the magick of staying right here on the earth plane instead.”
I nod, still about as far from excited as it gets but trying to hide it. Scoping out the ginormous room with its tall ceilings, glass windows, and plethora of corridors and halls that probably make it incredibly bright and welcoming in the daytime, but kind of creepy at night. “This place is huge. Have you been here before?”
He nods, heading for the round info desk in the center. “Once. Right before it officially opened. And though I know there’s lots of important works to see, there’s one exhibit in particular I’m extremely interested in.”
He swipes a guest guide off the stand, pressing his palm to the front until the desired location appears in his head. Then dropping it back in its slot, he leads me down a series of halls and up a few stairs, our path lit only by a series of security lights and the glint of the moon shining in through the windows.
“Is this it?” I ask, watching as he stands before a luminous painting titled Madonna Enthroned with St. Matthew, body still with awe, expression transformed to one of pure bliss.
He nods, unable to speak as he takes it all in, struggling to compose himself before turning to me. “I’ve traveled a lot. Lived in so many places. But when I finally left Italy just over four centuries ago, I swore I’d never return. The Renaissance was over, and my life—well—I was more than ready to move on. But then I heard about this new school of painters, the Carracci family in Bologna, who’d learned their craft from the masters, including my dear friend Raphael. They started a new way of painting, influencing the next generation of artists.” He motions to the painting before us, face filled with wonder as he softly shakes his head. “Just look at the softness—the textures! The intensity of color and light! It’s just—” He shakes his head. “It’s just brilliant!” he says, voice tinged with reverence.
I glance between the painting and him, wishing I could see it in the same way as he. Not as some old, priceless, highly regarded picture hanging before me, but as a true thing of beauty, an object of glory, a miracle of sorts.
He leads me to the next one, our hands grasped together as we marvel at a painting of Saint Sebastian, his poor, pale body pierced with arrows—all of it appearing so real I actually flinch.
And that’s when I get it. For the first time ever, I can see what Damen sees. Finally understanding that the true journey of all great art is in taking an isolated experience and not just preserving it, or interpreting it, but sharing it for all time.
“You must feel so—” I shake my head and press my lips together, searching for just the right word. “I don’t know—powerful—I guess. To be able to create something as beautiful as this.” I peer at him, knowing he can easily create a work with as much beauty and meaning as those that hang here.
But he just shrugs, moving on to the next one as he says, “Other than our art class at school, I haven’t painted in years. I guess I’m more of an appreciator than a creator now.”
“But why? Why would you turn your back on a gift like that? I mean, it is a gift, right? There’s no way it can be an immortal thing since we’ve all seen what happens when I try to paint.”
He smiles, leading me across the room and stopping before a magnificent rendition called Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife. Gaze searching every square inch of the canvas when he says, “Honestly? Powerful doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel with a brush in my hand, a blank canvas before me, and a full palette of paint by my side. For six hundred years I’ve been invincible, heir to the elixir sought by all men!” He shakes his head. “And yet n
othing can rival the incredible rush the act of creation brings. Of crafting something you just know is destined to be great for all time.”
He turns toward me, hand at my cheek. “Or at least that’s what I believed up until I saw you. Because seeing you for the very first time—” He shakes his head, eyes gazing into mine. “Nothing can ever compare with that very first glimpse of our love.”
“You didn’t stop painting for me—did you?” I hold my breath, hoping I wasn’t the cause of his artistic demise.
He shakes his head, gaze returning to the painting before him as his thoughts travel a long way away. “It had nothing to do with you. It’s just—well—at some point, the reality of my situation set in.”
I squint, having no idea what that means, or what he could possibly be getting at.
“A cruel reality I probably should’ve shared with you before.” He sighs, looking at me.
I gaze at him, stomach filling with dread, unsure I want to hear the answer when I ask, “What do you mean?” Sensing from the look in his eyes just how much he’s struggling with this.
“The reality of living forever,” he says, eyes dark, sad, focused on mine. “A reality that seems incredibly vast and infinite and powerful, with no limits in sight—until you realize the truth lurking behind it—the truth of watching your friends all wither and die while you stay the same. Only you’re forced to watch it from afar, because once the inequity becomes obvious, you’ve no choice but to move on, to go somewhere new and start over again. And again. And again.” He shakes his head. “All of which makes it impossible to forge any real bonds. And the ironic thing is, despite our unlimited access to powers and magick, the temptation to make a big impact or effect any real change is something that must be avoided at all costs. It’s the only way to remain hidden, with our secrets intact.”
“Because—” I coax, wishing he’d stop being so cryptic and just get to the point. He makes me so nervous when he starts talking like this.
“Because drawing that kind of attention guarantees that your name and likeness will be recorded in history, something of which we must work to avoid. Because while everyone around you will grow old and die, Haven, Miles, Sabine, and yes, even Stacia, Honor, and Craig—you and I will stay exactly the same, completely unchanged. And, trust me, it doesn’t take long before people start to notice how you haven’t changed a bit since the day you first met. We can’t run the risk of being recognized fifty years from now by a nearly seventy-year-old Haven. Can’t afford the risk of having our secret revealed.”
He grabs hold of my wrists, gazing at me with such intensity I actually feel the weight of his six hundred years. And, like always, when he’s troubled like this, my only wish is to whisk it away.
“Can you even begin to imagine if Sabine, or Haven, or Miles discovered the truth about us? Can you imagine what they’d think, what they’d say, what they’d do? That’s why people like Roman and Drina are so dangerous—they flaunt what they are, completely ignoring the natural order of things. Make no mistake, Ever, the cycle of life is there for a reason. And while I may have scoffed at that in my youth, feeling quite full of myself for rising above it, I no longer do. Besides, in the end, there’s really no fighting it. Whether you reincarnate like our friends, or remain the same like us, your karma will always catch up. And now that I’ve experienced the Shadowland, I’m even more convinced that life as nature intended it, is the one and only way.”
“But—if that’s what you believe—then where does that leave us?” I ask, a chill blanketing my skin, despite the warmth of his hands. “I mean, to hear you say it, we should lay low, and just live for ourselves, rather than using our incredible powers for any real change. And how can that possibly help your karma if you don’t use your gifts to help others? Especially if you do so anonymously?” Thinking of Haven and my hopes of helping her.
But before I can finish, Damen’s already shaking his head, looking at me when he says, “Where does that leave us? Exactly where we are.” He shrugs. “Together. Forever. As long as we’re very, very careful and continue to wear our amulets, that is. And as for using our powers? Well, I’m afraid it’s much more complicated than simply righting all wrongs. While we may judge things as good or bad, karma doesn’t. It’s a simple case of like gets like, the ultimate balancing act, nothing more, nothing less. And if you’re determined to fix every situation you deem as bad, or difficult, or somehow unsavory, then you rob the person of their own chance to fix it, learn from it, or even grow from it. Some things, no matter how painful, happen for a reason. A reason you or I may not be able to grasp at first sight, not without knowing a person’s entire life story—their cumulative past. And to just barge in and interfere, no matter how well-intentioned, would be akin to robbing them of their journey. Something that’s better not done.”
“So let me get this straight.” An edge creeping into my voice I don’t try to hide. “Haven comes to me and says, my cat is dying. And even though I’m pretty sure I can fix it, I don’t because it would result in too many questions I could never explain and draw undue suspicion. Fine, I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. But when she says, my parents might be divorcing, I might have to move, and it feels like my entire world is caving in—telling me this with no inkling whatsoever that I’m in the perfect position to help her, to maybe even reverse some of those things by—I don’t know.” I shrug, feeling totally frustrated now. “But anyway, my point is, something like that happens to our good friend and you’re telling me we can’t help? Because it would mess with her journey, or her karma, or whatever it is that you said? I mean, explain to me how that helps my karma by keeping the goods to myself.”
“I advise you to not get involved,” he says, turning back toward the painting and away from me. “Haven’s parents will continue to fight no matter what you do, and even if you miraculously paid off her house, thinking you could save it”—he looks over his shoulder, giving me a pointed look, sensing that’s exactly what I planned to do—“well, they’d probably end up selling it so they could split the proceeds and end up moving anyway.” He sighs, voice softening when he looks at me and adds, “I’m sorry, Ever. I don’t mean to sound like some jaded old man, but maybe I am. I’ve seen far too much and made so many mistakes—you’ve no idea how long it took me to learn all these things. But there really is a season for everything—just like they say. And while our season may be eternal, we can never let on.”
“And yet, how many famous artists painted your portrait? How many gifts did you receive from Marie Antoinette?” I shake my head. “I’m sure those portraits lived on! I’m sure someone kept a journal and put your name in it! And what about your modeling days in New York? What about that?”
“I don’t deny any of it.” He shrugs. “I was vain, full of myself, a textbook narcissist—and boy did I have fun.” He laughs, face transforming into the one I know and love, the sexy Damen, the fun Damen, so opposite of this forebearer of doom. “But you’ve got to understand, those portraits were all privately commissioned, even back then I knew better than to allow them to be publicly displayed. And as for the modeling, it was just a few pictures for a small-time ad campaign. I quit the next day.”
“So why did you stop painting? I mean, it seems like a great way to record an unnaturally long life.” My head beginning to spin from all of this.
He nods. “The problem was my work was becoming very well known. I was exalted, and believe me, I exalted in my exaltedness.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I was painting like a madman, completely obsessed, uninterested in anything else. Amassing a very large collection that drew far too much attention to myself before I properly realized the risk, and then—”
I look at him, heart crashing when I see the image unfold in his head. “And then there was a fire,” I whisper, seeing violent, orange flames rise into a darkened sky.
“Everything was destroyed.” He nods. “Including, for all appearances anyway, me.”
I suck in
my breath, meeting his eyes, unsure what to say.
“And before they could even extinguish the flames, I was gone. Traveling all over Europe, fleeing from place to place like a nomad, a gypsy, a vagabond, even changing my name a few times until enough time had passed and people started to forget. Finally settling in Paris, where, as you know, we first met—and, well, you know the rest. But, Ever—” He looks into my eyes, wishing he didn’t have to say it, but knowing it’s necessary to put it into words, even though I already know what comes next. “All of this is to say that at some point—not long from now—you and I will have to move.”
And the moment he says it, I can hardly believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I mean, it’s so obvious, hiding right in plain sight. And yet somehow I was able to ignore it, look the other way, pretending it would be different for me. Which just shows you what denial can do.
“You probably won’t age much past this,” he continues, hand smoothing my cheek. “And trust me, it won’t be long before our friends start to notice.”
“Please.” I smile, desperate to add a little lightness to this dark, heavy space. “May I remind you that we live in Orange County? A place where plastic surgery is practically the norm! Nobody ages here. Seriously. Nobody. Heck, we can carry on just as we are for the next hundred years!” I laugh, but when I look at Damen, see the way his eyes peer into mine, it’s clear the gravity of the situation trumps my small joke.
I head for the bench in the center of the room, plopping onto it as I bury my face in my hands. “What do I tell Sabine?” I whisper, as Damen sits beside me, slipping an arm around me and easing my fears. “I mean, it’s not like I can fake my own death. That crime-scene investigation stuff’s a little more advanced than it was in your day.”
“We’ll deal with it when the time comes,” he says. “I’m sorry, I should’ve mentioned this before.”
But when I look into his eyes, I know it wouldn’t have mattered. Wouldn’t have made the least bit of difference. Remembering the day when he first presented the whole idea of immortality to me, how careful he was to explain that I’d never cross the bridge, never be with my family again. But I went for it anyway. Pushed the thought right out of my way. Figuring I’d find some kind of loophole, discover a way to work around all of that—willing to convince myself of just about anything if it meant being with him for eternity. And it’s no different now.