And I can’t help but wonder if there’s a reason for that—if I’m meant to hear it. I mean real y and truly hear it, and maybe even do something about it.
Maybe I’m meant to pay it some serious notice. As opposed to waving it away like I’m most inclined to do.
Jude squinches his face, reducing his eyes to two narrow slits of the most bril iant blue-green—a sliver of tempting tropical sea that’d be so easy to wade into. “And I think … maybe … wel , I think the karma you’ve accumulated from making that choice is keeping you from experiencing…” He shuffles, fumbles, final y pul ing it together enough to say, “Wel , I think it’s keeping you from experiencing true happiness. Real bliss. If you know what I mean.”
Oh, I think I know what you mean.
I sigh. Damen sighs too. The two of us sounding like a chorus of frustrated discontent.
“So, anything else?” I lift my brow, realizing the words sounded far brusquer than intended and trying to soften the tone when I add, “I mean, any insight on how to get around al of that?”
Jude’s mouth grows grim in a way that fades his normal y brown skin to an edge of white that outlines his lips—lips I’ve kissed once—
twice—I can’t be too sure, there’ve been so many lives the three of us have al shared. His face ful of sincerity when he says, “Sorry.
That’s al I got. So … anyway, I’l leave you guys to it and…”
He starts to move away, clearly eager to wrap it up and move on with his day. And while Damen’s stil lost in thought, lost in a dark cloud of blame, I reach out, fingers catching Jude’s bicep as I pul him back to me in a show of brute strength, a pleading look in my eye, and a hastily released thought I took absolutely no time to consider, no time to edit.
Damen looks at me, having been yanked right out of his own thoughts to focus on mine. The distinct, somewhat alarming, more than a little embarrassing sound of: No, don’t go! that swirled through my head, swirled through the room, before I could stop it.
“Um, what I mean is, you don’t have to leave on our account…”
Damen squints, regarding me with great interest. The same goes for Jude. Resulting in two sets of lifted brows, one spliced, one perfect in every conceivable way, while the eyes that lie beneath are centered on me.
Knowing I need to finish the thought before they both come to some horrible conclusion, one that’l bring us ful circle again, I say,
“What I meant was, do you real y have to leave? Now?” Ugh. I rol my eyes at myself. What the heck is wrong with me? Bad to worse doesn’t even begin to describe it, and, unfortunately, Jude seems to agree.
“Wel , I thought I’d leave you to your privacy, maybe explore a bit, meet up with Romy, Rayne, and Ava.” He shrugs, the gesture showing the ful state of discomfort I’ve put him in.
“They’re here?” I glance al around though I don’t expect to find them. It’s more an attempt to get ahold of myself than anything else.
Jude shoots me an odd look, though he’s quick to chase it with: “No, they’re back on the earth plane, why?” His brow drops, his mouth flattens. “Ever—what’s this about?”
Damen’s energy radiates beside me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. So I take a deep breath, take a moment to careful y meet each of their gazes as I force the words from my lips. “Listen, I’ve got a little … research project I’m working on. And, since I’ve only got one week to get to the bottom of it,” I shoot Damen a pointed look, “I thought, wel , if you don’t mind, I, I mean, we—” My gaze holds onto Damen’s, pretty much begging him to trust me on this. “Wel , in light of the time constraints and the insights you shared, I thought we could real y use your help. I think your perspective could come in real y, real y handy. But of course, it’s up to you…”
Jude glances at us, weighing, considering, choosing to address his words to me when he says, “Fine. I’m in. It’s the least I can do for bungling the whole thing with Haven and just about everything else where you’re concerned. So tel me, where do we begin?”
five
I slide in beside Damen, my left knee pressed snugly against his right. The sight of it shielded by the thick wooden tabletop, sparing Jude from the view. No need to rub his nose in it. Make him feel any worse than he already does.
Stil , it’s not long before he rises from his place just across from us, mumbling something about a new tact he’d like to try, something that just sprang to mind. Though despite the excuse, it’s pretty clear he’s looking for escape, longing to go somewhere else, somewhere offering less proximity to Damen and me.
I peer at the large crystal globe that hovers before Damen, trying to make out the images it unfolds. But from this angle al I get is a colorful blur. To real y see it, you need to sit directly in front of it. Stil , I can tel by the way Damen observes it, shoulders slumped, head bent forward ever so slightly, breath coming steady and slow, that whatever he’s watching, it’s nothing of interest, nothing that’l lead us to the info we need. In fact, if anything, it appears to be lul ing him to sleep.
Frowning at the tablet before me that’s providing about as much hope as Damen’s globe, I push it away in disgust and glance al around. Desperate for a little help, from someone, or something—I’m not at al picky, I’l take what I can get at this point, but no help appears. Everyone remains immersed in their business, their own personal quest, paying no notice of me. And despite my closing my eyes, despite the stream of questions that flows from my mind, despite my obvious plea for assistance that rings loud and clear, the Great Hal s make no attempt to address it, no attempt to whisk me away to just the right room like it’s done so many times before.
Other than granting admittance, the Great Hal s of Learning seem to be ignoring me today.
I try to sit stil , try to concentrate, meditate, go to that nice quiet space—but I’m too restless, too agitated, and I can’t seem to focus.
My mind storming with the kind of thoughts that make it impossible to find any peace. I mean, how am I supposed to relax and concentrate on the flow of each passing breath, when I’m al too aware of the ticking clock that practical y hangs over my head? A constant reminder of just how rapidly my one-week deadline is shrinking, inching closer to the end.
Peeking once again at Damen’s globe spinning before him, I can’t help but feel glum, defeated, al owing my mind to travel to a place I’d prefer that it didn’t.
A place of doubt.
Second-guessing.
Extreme reservation.
The part that wants to believe, quickly overruled by the question of which would be worse: to be right about my hunch—or total y wrong in every way?
Would it be better to be solely responsible for the appearance of the murky part of Summerland—to be the object of the crazy old lady’s hope as wel as her scorn?
Or is it better to be way off base about it al , dead wrong in every sense? Which, in essence, would lighten my load and free me of the burden, the huge responsibility of it al .
What if that old lady real y is just some demented Summerland interloper like Damen claims?
What if the dream I was sure Riley sent bears no greater meaning than the one Damen’s already convinced of—a pathetic cry from my subconscious for more attention from him?
What if I’m just wasting our time? Misusing a week that could be much better spent?
And, even worse, what if I’m acting just selfish enough to drag Jude into it too, when it’s so painful y obvious how uncomfortable it is for him to be around Damen and me?
I swal ow hard and glance at Damen, knowing it’s time to cry uncle, time to manifest a duffle bag stuffed with al the usual vacation essentials so that we can scram out of here and head off to whatever destination he wants. Just because we have an eternity together doesn’t mean I should so wil ingly waste even a few days of it. But first, there’s just one last thing I want to try, and I’l need to go to the pavilion to do it.
He meets my gaze, those dark, hea
vily lashed, almond-shaped eyes staring right into mine, his lips parting in a way that prompts me to lean toward him, placing my hand on his arm when I say, “Damen, I have an idea.”
His globe halts, vanishes, and by the look in his eye, he’s clearly relieved to be free of it.
“Why don’t you go find Jude and tel him to quit looking, that I changed my mind, I don’t want him to waste any more time, while I head for the pavilion and wait there for you.”
“The pavilion?” He smiles, eyes shining with promise.
I nod, taking a moment to kiss his forehead, his nose, his lips, before pul ing away and saying, “And hurry!”
six
He definitely hurried.
I can tel just by looking.
Usual y he’s so everything-in-its-place perfect—the poster boy for ultimate cool, calm, and complete and total col ectedness no matter the occasion. But, standing before me now, with his face slightly flushed, his hair fal ing into his eyes, his clothes the slightest bit disheveled, wel , on anyone else it would hardly be worth noticing, but on Damen, it’s a sure sign of eager anticipation.
“Wel this was unexpected. Welcome. In fact, more than welcome, don’t get me wrong, but stil unexpected.”
I haul myself up from my slunked-down position on the big, white, marshmallowy couch. Clearing my face of disappointment, I struggle to replace it with an eagerness to match Damen’s own—an act that proves to be no easy feat after just having failed at my last-ditch idea.
Stil , it’s time to move on, I’m sure of that now, so I force a smile onto my face, one that starts to feel real the moment I see the freshly picked tulip Damen holds in his hand. His face lights up with a grin that grows in intensity as he moves closer to me, covering the distance in less than a handful of steps, his body appearing like a rapid dark blur until the next thing I know he’s placing the tulip onto my lap, settling in beside me, and glimpsing the remote I stil grasp.
“Did you find Jude?” I ask, wanting to cover the serious aspects before we get too distracted by our pasts.
He nods, scooches closer, al ows his arm to slide around me.
“And? Did he find anything?”
Damen looks at me, the slight shake of his head the only answer I need.
But even though it leaves me feeling somewhat deflated (okay, maybe more than somewhat), I don’t sigh or groan or anything of the sort. In fact, I don’t do much of anything to let on just how the news affects me.
Part of me knowing it’s al for the best—just when Damen and I are doing so wel , ful y committed to each other like never before—just when he’s ready to whisk me away on some wonderful, exotic, romantic (stil undetermined) vacation—wel , the last thing I need is to throw a wrench into our current state of bliss—especial y after al that we went through to find ourselves here.
The last thing we need is for me to lead us al off on some crazy wild-goose chase, steadfastly ignoring the obvious, the glaring, impossible-to-ignore fact that al signs clearly point to me being wrong. Wel aware that this is one of those times when it’s best to be wrong, that being right would only end in a batch of extreme unpleasantness.
Yep, part of me knows exactly that.
And, as for the other part, wel , it’s just gonna have to learn to cry uncle.
“So, which one wil it be?” Damen asks, wasting no time in stealing the remote.
I narrow my eyes, frowning at him in a playful way. Remembering the last time he didn’t swipe it in time, al owing me to push a series of buttons that revealed a tragic yet ultimately hopeful slave life he’d hoped to keep hidden.
“It’s not because of that,” he says, misreading the frown and trying to hand it right back. Wanting me to know, in no uncertain terms, that I real y, truly have seen it al , witnessed al of my lives, no matter how bad.
But I’m quick to wave it away, everything I’ve tried so far has failed, so I’m happy to let him take over from here.
My gaze level on his, unable to keep the flush from rising to my cheeks when I say, “How about London?” I blush. I can’t help it. No matter how frivolous and shal ow I might’ve been, I’m real y quite fond of the life I once lived as the beautiful, dark-haired, spoiled daughter of a British land baron. I guess because I was so untroubled back then, so free of burdens. My untimely demise at Drina’s hands was the only dark spot on that entire horizon.
Damen squints, fingers poised over the buttons. “Are you sure? London? Not Amsterdam?” He looks at me with an irresistible puppy dog gaze.
My lips quirk in response, knowing exactly why Damen always wants to revisit Amsterdam, despite his claim that it’s because he gets to paint (art being a love that trails second to me), I know better. I know it’s because he gets to paint me as a barely clothed, very flirtatious, completely immodest, titian-haired artist’s muse.
I nod my consent, thinking it’s the least I can do after al that time I spent boring him to death in the Great Hal s of Learning. And it’s just a matter of seconds until the screen flashes before us and he grabs hold of my hand, rising from the couch as he quickly leads me to it.
But just like I usual y do, I skid to a stop right before it. From where I stand, it appears to be a hard, heavy, foreboding slab—the kind that would gladly reward you with a major concussion for being foolish enough to even try to merge into it. Giving no visible sign that it’s something that yields enough for one to slip into.
And, just like he usual y does, Damen looks at me and says, “Believe. ”
So I do. Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes as though I’m about to dive into a very deep pool, I press my body against it, continuing to push until we’re clear on the other side—until we’re one with the scene.
The first thing I do is bury my hands deep into my hair. Threading my fingers through the strands and smiling at the soft silky feel of it. I love this hair. I know it’s vain, but I can’t help it, I do. Its color consisting of the most beautiful blazing red, like a riotous sunset with just a hint of gold traipsing through. And when I gaze down at my dress, or, more accurately, the barely there slip of flesh-colored silk that drapes and swirls al around me, precariously held together by a loose knot tied at the back of my neck, wel , I’m always newly amazed by the amount of confidence it takes to wear something like this. When I’m here, dressed as her, I don’t feel the slightest bit shy.
But then I’m no longer seventeen-year-old Ever—she’s been replaced by nineteen-year-old Fleur—a beautiful Dutch girl with no doubt of her beauty, no doubt of herself.
No doubt of the bottomless love shining in the eyes of the darkly handsome artist who stands at his easel and paints her.
I move through the field of tulips, graceful y, easily, enjoying the feel of the soft, silky petals and stems brushing against me, stopping in just the right spot and turning toward him, holding the pose he’s asked me to keep.
My gaze moving among the flowers to the cloud-streaked sky, pretending to be preoccupied, captivated by the bounty of nature that surrounds me, when real y I’m just waiting for the inevitable moment when he’l abandon the painting for me.
I al ow my eyes to light onto his, permitting only a ghost of a smile when I see the way his brush trembles—a sure sign that it’s just a matter of seconds before he ditches the pleasure of capturing me on canvas for the pleasure of capturing me in his arms. I can see the hunger, the smoldering blaze of desire that flares in his gaze.
And it’s not long before he sets his brush aside and makes his way toward me. His gait slow, control ed, but completely deliberate, the fire in his eyes heating to where I can feel their warmth from where I stand. Pretending to be so absorbed in the pose I’ve yet to notice his nearness, the tingle and heat that flows through me, into me, al around me—a flirtatious game we both like to play.
But instead of taking me into his arms, he stops just before me, face uncertain, fingers quivering as he reaches into his pocket for the smal silver flask. The one containing the strange, red, opale
scent brew he often drinks. His eyes continuing to burn into mine, though along with the usual blur of need, there’s something new lurking behind it—something as impossible to read as it is to deny.
His fingers shake as he grasps the flask, lifts it in offering. His body urging me to take it, to taste it, as his tormented gaze tel s a whole other story. Belying a secret battle that wages within, until final y, overruled by an unnamed fear, his expression changes to one of a bitter resolution so brutal, he returns the flask, and reaches for me instead.
His arms circling, clasping me tightly to his chest, his body emitting such love, such reverence, I close my eyes and sink into him. Sink into the feel of his touch, of his lips meeting mine—lost in the wonderful, floaty, weightless feeling of being with him. Like skimming through clouds, surfing over rainbows—we are gravity defying, boundless. The two of us locked in the kind of deeply lingering soulful kiss we can no longer manage back home on the earth plane.
Kissing in a way that, while much better than what we’re capable of back home, also bears the restrictions of what transpired before.
His fingers creep upward, slipping into the flimsy silk knot at my neck. Just about to release it, release me, when I (she!) make a smal sound of protest and push him away. And, wel , at that moment, I can’t help but curse her.
Stupid Fleur.
Stupid girl I used to be.
I mean, if she was so dang confident—so carefree and sure of herself—then why did she stop him just when they got to the good part, just when they were about to …
Overcome with annoyance that the decisions I made then continue to haunt me today—determining what we’re capable of, just how far we’re permitted to go—my frustration grows so great, the next thing I know I’m hurled right out of the scene.
Right out of character.
Right out of being Fleur, and back to being me, Ever.
I stand there, eyes wide, gasping for breath. Amazed to find myself stil part of the scenery, able to observe al that goes on before me, though no longer claiming one of the starring roles.