Instead, I’m caught in a downpour, a relentless spring rain that turns the ground to mud and shows no sign of stopping.
I struggle to my feet, quickly slipping my arms out of the sleeves as I haul my jacket up over my head and tie those same sleeves under my chin in an attempt to keep from getting any more drenched than I already am. Tackling the trail one careful step at a time, having given up on inspiring thoughts, reminisces, or anything else, and reserving my focus for staying upright, staying steady, and not toppling over the side. And when the rain turns to a blazing hot sun that leaves the ground dry and cracked, I don’t bat an eye—and when that same sun is cooled by a warm, sultry breeze I know that summer has now turned to fal .
The cycle of seasons repeating itself until it no longer fazes me, until I form a routine. Bundling up and hibernating through winter, dodging the downpour of spring, peeling off my T-shirt ’til I’m down to my tank top when summer comes, then donning it again when summer turns to fal . Through it al , I just keep on keeping on, doing my best to ration my food and water supply, doing my best not to panic, and nearly succeeding with the latter until something happens that shocks me to the core.
Something I’ve never seen in these parts before.
Not even in the deepest depths of the Shadowland.
It grows dark.
Okay, maybe not pitch-black dark, but stil dark. Or at the very least, dim.
Like the beginning of nightfal , or the gloaming as it’s cal ed.
That eerie, gloomy moment when everything becomes a silhouette of itself.
That eerie, gloomy moment when it’s hard to distinguish individual objects from the shadows they cast.
I stop, my foot slipping, sending a flurry of rocks over the side, knowing that could’ve been me. My heart hammering furiously as I gather myself, gather my limbs, give myself a quick once-over, and ensure I’m okay.
“I don’t like this,” I say, my voice breaking the silence until it echoes al around me. Having now official y joined the ranks of al the other crazy people who talk to themselves. “Between the dark and that fog up ahead…” I frown, seeing the way the trail abruptly halts into a thick cloud of murky white mist that rises up from seemingly out of nowhere. Giving no indication of what might lie just beyond, and certainly providing no sign of the tree, no hint that I’m even on the right path. “This doesn’t look good,” I add, my voice so ominous it worsens my unease.
I glance al around, wondering what to do now. Observing the way the fog seems to grow and expand and slither straight toward me, pulsing in a way that makes it seem vital, alive. The sight of it making me wonder if I should maybe backtrack a bit, find a place where it’s clear and hang out ’til it lifts. But then I hesitate for so long the next thing I know it’s too late.
The mist is already here. Already upon me.
Having crept up so fast I’m swal owed in an instant. Lost in a swirl of white, drizzly haze as my fingers reach, grasp, and claw frantical y, trying to get my bearings, to clear even a smal bit out of my way.
But it’s no use. I’m drowning in a sea of white vapor that presses down al around. Stifling a scream when I lift my hands before me and realize I can’t even see my own fingers.
No longer sure which way is forward, which way is back, I reach for my flashlight and set it on low, but it doesn’t help. Doesn’t make a dent in this fog. And I’m veering dangerously close to succumbing to a raging, ful -blown, meltdown panic attack, when I hear him.
A distant voice that drifts toward me, creeping up from behind. The sound of it prompting me to cry out, to shout his name as loud as I can. My tone thready, high-pitched, letting him know that I’m here, that I won’t move, that I’l wait until he finds me.
Heaving a huge sob of relief when I feel the grab of his fingers, his hand on my sleeve, gripping tightly, pul ing me to him.
I huddle deep into the curve of his arms, bury my face in his chest, and press my forehead tightly to his neck, only to discover too late that it’s not Damen who holds me.
twenty-nine
“Ever.”
His cheek presses into my hair as his lips seek my ear, and though the voice is certainly male, it’s not one I recognize.
The mist continues to gather—rendering it impossible for me to determine just who the voice belongs to. His body pressing, conforming against mine, as I squinch my eyes shut, try to peer inside his head, but get nowhere fast. Whoever this is, he’s learned to put up one heck of a shield against such attacks.
I pul back, struggle to break free, but it’s no use. He’s unfeasibly strong and continues to cling like a drowning man intent on dragging me along.
“Careful,” he says, his face shifting, al owing for a gust of cold breath to blast al the way down the length of my neck, as the push of his fingers radiates through my clothes.
Cold breath.
Colder fingers.
Unusual strength.
Thoughts I can’t hear.
Can only mean one thing.
“Marco?” I venture, wondering if it means that Misa’s here too since I rarely see them without each other.
“Hardly.” Chasing the word with a deep, scathing laugh that seems more than a little inappropriate considering the circumstances we find ourselves in.
“Then who…” I start, wondering if it’s one of the other immortals Roman might’ve turned, though it’s not long before he supplies the answer for me.
“Rafe,” he says, his voice low and deep. “You may not remember me, but we’ve met once or twice. Though always casual y, never formal y.”
I swal ow hard, having no idea if that’s good news or bad. He’s always been a bit of an enigma, though I don’t dwel on it long. My main concern is breaking out of his grip. The rest wil fol ow.
“I hope I didn’t scare you.” He loosens his hold just a little, but only a little, not enough to grant me my freedom. “I lost my footing. Fel deep into the canyon back there. Luckily for me, I didn’t hit bottom—assuming there is a bottom. Instead I got hung up on an outcropping of rocks, then spent what seems like just shy of forever finding my way back up the side. Which, by the way, is a lot easier said than done when you can’t see a bloody thing. Went through so many seasons, I lost track. Anyway, I was just about to give up, set up camp, or more accurately hang on to what little I could until the fog clears, when I heard footsteps, your voice, and wel , it gave me just the incentive I needed to climb faster and find my way to safety. Just knowing I was no longer alone in this godforsaken place made it easier. But, I have to tel you, Ever, I’m a bit surprised to find you here on your own, I thought for sure you’d be with Damen. So who were you talking to anyway? Yourself?”
I narrow my gaze, knowing better than to answer that question, or even to let on that I’m out here on my own. He’s mocking me. He’s not the least bit sincere. And though the mist does a real y good job of obscuring his face, al owing me only a glimpse of the faintest outline of his dark wavy hair, it’s not like I need to actual y see him to confirm it. The contempt in his voice rings loud and clear.
“If you ask me, we have two choices,” he says, as though we’re just two good friends pooling our wits, searching for a solution that’s mutual y beneficial and pleasing. “We can either sit this thing out and wait for the fog to clear, or we can make our way back down and head out of here. I vote for making our way back down, how about you?”
A mil ion retorts rush forth, but I clamp my lips shut before I say something I might live to regret. Even though his proximity is giving me the creeps, even though I’m tempted to pluck his fingers right off my sleeve—I can no longer do that. Not after al that I’ve learned. Now that I know we’re al one—al connected—the old reactions no longer work.
But that doesn’t mean I have to engage. I’ve no doubt his intentions aren’t good. I move to push past him, eager to put as much distance between us as I possibly can, careful to silence al thoughts of worry, paranoia, or fear that his mere presence has
spawned.
For one thing, I don’t want him to overhear my thoughts, and for another, I need to clear my mind so I can reserve my focus for which direction the tree might lie in.
But my mind draws a blank.
Summerland has provided al that it wil . What happens from here rests solely on me.
Rafe trudges behind, his stride fal ing uncomfortably close. But my need for caution precludes me from moving too fast, so I continue along, careful y placing one foot in front of the other, tentatively testing each step before al owing my ful weight to fal upon it. Feeling my way along the path like a blind person navigating an unfamiliar room, knowing this may take much longer than necessary, but also knowing it’s better to go slow, better to stay safe, than to lose my footing and be eternal y sorry.
I just hope I’m headed the right way.
“I stil think we should turn back,” Rafe says, easily closing the distance between us as he stumbles behind me.
“Then turn back.” My eyes sweep the area, on high alert for signs of … wel , anything, something. “Real y. I was doing just fine on my own.”
“Wow.” Rafe huffs, puffs, makes a big show of letting me know just how offended he is, though his voice sounds far more amused than insulted. “You real y know how to make a bloke feel welcome, don’tcha, Ever? You should be happy I’m here. But, then again, Roman did warn me about you.”
“Yeah, and just what exactly did Roman say?” I pause, turning to face him, straining to get a better look, but stil nothing. The mist is far too thick for me to discern much of anything.
I focus back on the trail, wincing at the way Rafe’s bitter, chil ed breath frosts the back of my head when he says, “Roman said plenty.
Seemed to have a pretty good handle on you. But I’m afraid I can’t real y expound upon any of that. At the moment, it seems the details have escaped me. I blame the altitude, how ’bout you?”
I rol my eyes, aware that it’s wasted since he can’t see it, but stil , it makes me feel better and at the moment I’l take al the good feeling I can get.
“And speaking of Roman…” Rafe pauses dramatical y, though it’s pretty obvious what’s to fol ow. “Whatever happened to him? Been a while since he and I last caught up. According to the rumor mil , you kil ed him. But then, I’ve never been one for secondhand information. Whenever possible, I like to go straight to the source. So, tel me, Ever, is it true? Did you do it? Because even though I don’t know you al that wel , I have to say, it’s definitely got that grim ring of truth. You’ve got it in you, that’s for sure. I knew it the first time I saw you. No offense, of course.”
“None taken.” I scowl, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable with the fact that he’s behind me, but doing my best not to let on. “It’s true that Roman’s no longer with us,” I say, confirming what Rafe already knows, though careful to give no hint of the deep remorse I feel for that loss, nor any indication of who might be to blame. My voice growing bolder when I add, “Turns out he wasn’t so immortal after al .
But then, you already guessed that, didn’t you?”
The breeze quickens, sweeping past us, causing the air to chil to an uncomfortable degree. Becoming so cold my heart sinks, knowing I can’t possibly bear another winter again, especial y not with Rafe here.
Unwil ing to stop long enough to retrieve my jacket from my backpack, I rub my hands up and down my arms in an attempt to warm myself. My ears pricking with interest when a second gust rustles past. Only this time, in addition to the usual crackling of leaves and pattering of rocks tumbling over each other, it carries a whole other sound—one that’s either animal or human—I can’t be too sure. Al I know is that Rafe and I are no longer the only ones here.
My hair lifts, swirling around me as I fight to gather the strands in my fist. Noticing the way the fog thinned just enough to al ow for a glimpse of a distant snowcapped mountain, along with the very top branches of what must be a very tal tree (possibly the tree?), before thickening again and blotting everything out.
Determined to keep Rafe focused on me, hoping he didn’t see what I saw, I turn to him and say, “By the way, what exactly are you doing here? Surely this is no accident? So what is it you’re up to? Are you in cahoots with Misa and Marco? Or maybe even a friend of Lotus’s by chance? Or, are you seriously going to try to convince me that you’re just out for a day hike?”
I cock a brow, taking in what little I can see of him, his height, his wavy mane of dark hair, but the rest is al white. But when he doesn’t answer, when he just moves as though he might try to jump me, I reach for my flashlight and shine it right in his face, the beam cutting through the haze and showing me al that I need to see—which isn’t much of anything.
Like al the other rogue immortals I’ve met this past year, Rafe remains remarkably cool under pressure. His face showing no sign that he’s even startled by the sharp beam of light now shining on him. For someone who’s just been caught positioning himself to better attack me, he doesn’t look even the slightest bit guilty. If anything, he just looks determined.
But there is something else.
Something that real y stands out though I try not to let on.
He looks older.
Way older.
Last time I saw him he was just another super-hot, perfect specimen of a gorgeous immortal.
But now, while he’s stil real y good-looking, he’s also showing some definite signs of aging and wear—the years catching up with him in the form of graying hair and the fan of wrinkles surrounding his eyes. Even his teeth seem a little yel ow, as opposed to what I’ve come to think of as bright and shiny immortal white.
And suddenly I know exactly why he’s here.
“Let’s cut the crap, shal we?” he says, closing the smal gap between us in a handful of seconds. “Neither one of us is on a day hike.
You’re on Lotus’s journey to the Tree of Life. Hoping to get your hands on the one piece of fruit it bears every one thousand years.” He stares at me, his voice a perfect match for the glare in his gaze. “One beautiful, perfect piece of fruit that looks like a cross between a pomegranate and a peach. One amazing piece of produce that offers immortality to whoever is lucky enough to pluck it, seize it, taste it.
And, as it turns out, the mil ennium is up. It’s time for the harvest. And while I’m sure you consider yourself worthy of a bite, I hate to break it to you, Ever, but this is how it’s gonna go down: You’re gonna lead me to the tree, and I’l be the one to claim its bounty.”
I continue to study him, my flashlight moving over his face, wondering if I should fil him in on the truth that the fruit isn’t quite what it’s rumored to be. That the story behind its powers was never intended to be taken quite so literal y. The tree’s fruit grants wisdom and enlightenment to those who seek it—providing the ultimate truth—the knowledge that they are truly immortal beings. For those who’ve achieved physical immortality, wel , it has a reversal effect—returning the body and the soul back to the way it was always intended to be.
Which is not at al the sort of immortality he seeks—though it’s definitely the kind that he needs.
But instead I just say, “And why would I agree to do that?”
“Because now that Roman is gone, thanks to you I might add”—he pauses long enough to let that sink in—“the tree is my only hope left. Haven drank what was left of his supply, and since he assumed he’d live forever, he never bothered to share the recipe. Not to mention how he liked having control over us. Liked it almost as much as the party he threw every century and a half, always on the summer solstice, where he’d gather us together, wherever he was living at the time. We’d swap stories, share some good times, and drink a toast to each other, before we said our good-byes and moved on with our lives. Kind of like a high school reunion, but better, if you can imagine. No second-rate hotel bal room, no need to impress each other with bad plastic surgery and inflated job titles that don’t actual y mean anything…”
I don?
??t say a word. And I definitely don’t even try to imagine. I just stand there and let him continue.
“Funny thing was, even though your boyfriend Damen never showed—probably because he was never invited—but stil , he was always the most popular topic of conversation.” Rafe nods, gaze going inward now, as though he’s watching a scene that plays in his head. “For years he was like a legend to me. You should’ve heard the stories the orphans al told. The first among our kind, the one who turned six then disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again, or at least not intentional y. Do you realize he never even once thought to track them al down and let them drink again? He abandoned them, Ever—did you know that? He left them al to shrivel—to grow old and wither—while he stayed eternal y young.” He shakes his head and frowns in a way that encourages a whole new set of lines to race across his forehead. “Sorry, but if it sounds as though I don’t like him, wel , that’s because I don’t. Stil , that has nothing to do with why I can’t al ow you to reach that tree. It’s nothing personal, and I hope you’l understand when I say that the reason you can’t get your hands on that fruit is because it’s reserved just for me.”
I take a deep breath, dimming my flashlight a bit, realizing it’s better to try to ease his mind and put him off guard, to convince him to lower his defenses, than to put him on the defensive if I’ve any hope of regaining the advantage. Ful y aware that al it would take to be rid of him is one good shove that sends him over the edge. And as tempting as that might be, I won’t do it—and I’m pretty sure he won’t do it to me.
He needs me.
Only I can make the journey.
Only I can find the tree.
Which means he needs me to stay healthy, vital, and most importantly, in one piece, if he has any intention of my leading the way.