“Charles Manson.” Jude nods, leaning back in his seat again, his fingers picking at the ancient Mayan symbol on the front of his T-shirt. “He thought the entire album contained an apocalyptic message, cal ing for a race war, and he used it to justify kil ing the wealthy, which he and his family of fol owers did.”
I shudder. I can’t help it. The whole idea is too creepy. Stil , that’s hardly what we’re doing here, and I’ve a pretty good idea Damen knows it.
“While that may be al wel and true,” I say, careful y avoiding his gaze, “there’s definitely a message here. And, according to Lotus anyway, there’s also a journey that only I can make.” Then, surprising just about everyone, including myself, I look right at Jude when I say, “Al that time you’ve spent in Summerland, al that time you’ve studied your past lives— our past lives—have you ever seen one I don’t know about? One that surprised you? One where I was named Adelina?”
I hold my breath, al owing myself to exhale only when he shakes his head and says, “Sorry, no.”
“Okay then.” Damen nods, divorcing himself of the wal , signaling that this meeting is now official y adjourned. “I think we’ve covered about al that we can here, no?”
And even though I want to protest that the answer is, indeed, no, I just nod and go with it.
Partly because I know he’s only doing what he thinks is right. Trying to protect me from Lotus, the dark part of Summerland, and heck, maybe even myself.
And partly because, wel , he’s probably right. There probably is no more to do here. Even though I’m reluctant to admit it, it appears we’ve uncovered al that we can.
Or at least for now anyway.
As for the rest—wel , I’m hoping it’l reveal itself somewhere along the journey.
ten
“Are you going in?”
Damen stands beside me, right beside me. His body so close to mine I can feel his swarm of tingle and heat, his warm breath brushing softly along the curve of my cheek.
“No,” I whisper. “I—I can’t do it.” I swal ow hard, wrapping my arms around myself as I continue to peer inside. Feeling like the worst kind of creepy stalker for standing out here in the dark, spying on Sabine and Munoz instead of just going around to the front, opening the door, and going in to join them like a normal person would.
But I’m not normal.
Not even close.
And that’s pretty much what keeps me crouching out here in the dark, on the wrong side of her window.
If you’re not going in, can you at least tell me what we’re doing out here? The words thought instead of spoken, he doesn’t want to risk being heard.
I’m saying good-bye. I sigh. I’m preparing for a future without her.
Though I’m facing the wrong way to see his expression, I can feel the way his energy shifts, the way it broadens and expands until it swal ows us both. Providing a wonderful, warm, hug-like embrace that lingers wel past the point when his arm catches up and fol ows suit.
“Ever…” he whispers, hands clasped at my waist, lips pushing through my curtain of hair to land on my cheek. And even though it seemed like something might fol ow, he chooses to end it right there. Al owing the kiss to do what words fail to.
We huddle together, watching as the happy couple picks at the remaining scraps of dinner. Each of them urging the other to claim the last slice of pizza before Sabine waves her hand and reaches for her wineglass and Monoz laughs and digs in.
But despite their playful attitude, it’s not hard to locate the glint of remorse in Sabine’s gaze, the flicker of defeat at having taken a chance, issued an ultimatum, only to fail at the one thing that truly meant something to her.
A look that’s almost enough to rouse me from my position at the window so I can hurl myself in there and show her that al is okay, al is forgiven.
Almost, but not quite.
Instead, I remain right in place, observing their date. She stil in her suit, which, coupled with the pizza, signals a late night at work; while Munoz is dressed far more informal y, wearing a pair of broken-in jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt with the cuffs rol ed halfway to his elbows, enjoying a little time off from school, using his winter break to work on his book.
The one he was about to give up on.
The one I told him would be published someday.
Well, at least some good came of my abilities. They may have alienated Sabine, but at least I managed to convince Munoz to not give up on his dream.
And I’m so lost in the thought, and Damen’s so lost in the act of comforting me, that neither one of us is prepared for Munoz to burst through the side door with an overstuffed trash bag in hand.
“Ever?” He stands before us, Hefty bag dangling by his side, squinting as though he stopped trusting his eyes the moment they landed on me.
I flash my palm, my gaze pleading with his to keep quiet, keep the news to himself, keep on heading for the trash as though he didn’t see us stooped beneath the windowsil .
But it’s a lot to ask of someone who’s been searching for you. And while he makes for the trash can and drops the bag in, he’s quick to circle right back to where Damen and I stand.
“Where the hel have you been?” His words take me by surprise, mostly because they didn’t come out nearly as angry as they could have. They sounded more like a huge sigh of relief.
“I’m staying at Damen’s,” I say, as though that somehow covers the ful extent of my absence. “And Sabine’s ful y aware of that since Damen cal ed to tel her as much.” I glance at Damen, glimpsing the wave of shock that plays over his face. He didn’t realize I knew that.
“Sabine’s been worried sick. You’ve got to go in there—you’ve got to let her know you’re okay.” He glances between us, his brain stil trying to catch up with what he sees before him.
“You know I can’t do that.” My voice is flat, matter of fact. “And you know why. In fact, you know way more than you should—way more than I ever intended.” I sigh and shake my head, remembering the day, just a few weeks before, when, in a frantic rush toward a disaster I didn’t foresee, I manifested a bouquet of daffodils and a black BMW right before his eyes. Basical y showing him right then and there that the ful extent of my weirdness—my powers—go far deeper than the psychic telepath he knew me to be. He saw me run like the wind, make things appear where there was once only air—and I’m pretty sure that after getting over the shock of that, he probably started wondering just what else I might be capable of. Or at least that’s what I would’ve done if our positions were switched.
“Are you part of this too?” Munoz asks, shifting his focus to Damen as though looking for a nice convenient place to dump al the blame.
“I am the reason, yes,” Damen says, without hesitation, no pause of any kind.
And I can’t help but gape, so startled by the words, the way they echoed what Lotus said earlier. Wondering if that’s what he meant, or if it’s just a coincidence that his words mirrored hers.
Munoz ponders, tries to make sense of it. He was headed in one direction when Damen went in another, and now he’s forced to catch up, or at least meet somewhere in the middle.
“I always thought there was something very strange about you,” Munoz final y says, his voice low, almost dreamy.
Damen nods, and I’ve no idea how he took that, his voice, like his face, gives nothing away.
“It’s almost as though you’re not from this time,” Munoz adds, as though musing to himself.
“I am not from this time.” Damen looks right at him, the reply so simple, so direct, so unexpected, it takes my breath away.
Munoz nods, taking the answer in stride, acting as though he just might believe him when he says, “And so, which time are you from, then?”
“One of your favorites.” Damen’s lip curls, al owing for a ghost of a smile. “The Italian Renaissance.”
Munoz gulps, nods, and glances al around as though he expects to find further explanation planted in th
e garden, floating in the pool, or maybe even taped to the lid of the barbeque. Processing the statement with more calm than I ever would’ve expected, acting as though he’s not at al surprised to find himself having such a serious conversation about such a peculiar subject.
“So, alchemy is real then?” he ventures, hitting the bul ’s-eye in a way most people fail to.
I mean, when it was me trying to pin down Damen’s strangeness, I went straight for vampire. Miles did too. But apparently Munoz is not nearly as influenced by the current pop culture phenomenon, and so he shot straight for the truth.
“Alchemy has always been real,” Damen admits, his face control ed, voice steady, giving absolutely no hint as to how much this is costing him—though I have a pretty good idea.
For six centuries he’s fought to keep the truth of his existence a secret, only to meet up with me in this lifetime and watch the whole thing unravel like a moth-eaten sweater. “Real, yes—but not always successful.” Munoz’s eyes light on Damen, considering him in a whole new way, as Damen nods in agreement. “And you, Ever?” Munoz looks at me, trying to see me in a whole new way too. But despite al of my unmitigated weirdness, I’m clearly a product of the modern world, there’s no getting around it.
I shake my head, lift my shoulders, and leave it at that.
“Wow. There’s just so much to talk about—so much I want to ask you—”
I peer anxiously at Damen, hoping Munoz won’t launch into a whole string of inquiries that Damen, for whatever reason, wil feel compel ed to answer.
But, as luck would have it (something I haven’t had much of lately, but I’l happily take in any form that it comes) Sabine saves me by cal ing, “Paul? Everything okay out there?”
He sucks in his breath and glances back and forth between us. And since I can’t risk speaking, can’t risk having her hear my voice coming from just outside her window, I settle for shaking my head, and shooting him a deep, pleading, meaningful look.
Overcome with relief when he says, “Yeah, I’m … fine. Just enjoying the night, doing a little stargazing, searching for Cassiopeia, you know how I like to do that. I’l be inside in a second.”
“Should I join you?” she asks, her voice lowered, seductive, leading straight into something I so don’t want to witness.
“Nah, it’s pretty cold out here. Hold the thought and I’l meet you inside,” he answers, much to my relief.
He gives us a thorough once-over. His lips parting as if to say something more, but I just shake my head, close my eyes, and quickly manifest a bouquet of daffodils I urge him to give her.
“What am I supposed to tel her? What should I say?” he whispers, casting a cautious glance toward the window.
“I’d prefer you not say anything, not mention it at al ,” I tel him. “But, if you feel you have to, then just tel her I love her. Tel her I’m sorry for al the trouble I’ve caused, and to not spend another moment feeling guilty about anything she might’ve said out of frustration and anger. I know it sounds cold, and probably pretty awful from your point of view, but please just try to trust me when I say that it’s better this way. We can’t see each other again. It’s impossible, she won’t accept it, and there’s just no way to explain.”
Then before Munoz can react, before he can take a stance, make a promise one way or another, Damen squeezes my hand, pul s me along the stone path, and out the side gate.
The two of us fading into the night until Munoz can no longer see us.
The two of us refusing to look back, knowing it’s better to look forward, toward the future, than to long for a past that’s gone forever.
eleven
Since it’s our last night together—or at least our last night for an indeterminate amount of time anyway—I’m hoping to do something special.
Something memorable.
Something that Damen can look back on with a smile.
And yet, it probably shouldn’t be too memorable since I can’t afford for him to catch onto the fact that I’m withholding something I’m not quite wil ing to mention just yet.
While I made up my mind to set off on Lotus’s journey not long after having left Summerland, Damen’s not exactly clued in to that fact.
And since getting him clued in wil no doubt lead to an argument of mammoth proportions, I’m hoping to keep the news to myself until I have no choice but to share it with him.
So while he busies himself with the business of brushing his teeth and getting ready for sleep, I slip between the sheets and try to come up with something with which to surprise him. But a moment later, when he pauses in the doorway looking like a glorious vision wrapped in blue silk, the best I can do is gulp, stare, and manifest a single red tulip that floats from my hand to his.
He grins, closes the distance between us in less than a handful of steps, and slides in beside me. His fingers softly tracing the line of my brow as he pushes my hair from my face, gathers me into the crook of his arm, and settles me snugly against him. My cheek pressed hard against his chest as I close my eyes and lose myself in the hum of his heartbeat, the almost feel of his lips, the way his hands play across my skin. Tossing my leg over his, I anchor him to me, concentrating on his essence—his energy—his being—
determined to brand every last detail of this moment onto my brain so it never slips away.
And even though I want to speak, to say something meaningful and significant, something to make up for anything bad that might’ve passed between us earlier, with the way his hands smooth and soothe—with the way his voice is reduced to a faint murmur that plays at my ear—it’s not long before I’m lul ed away from my waking state and into a deep dreamless sleep.
* * *
I wait until midmorning to tel him. Wait until the showers are taken, the clothes donned, and we find ourselves downstairs in his kitchen, sitting at the breakfast table, enjoying some chil ed bottles of elixir while Damen scans the morning papers.
I wait until I have no more excuses to delay what I know must be said.
It’s cowardly, I know, but I do it anyway.
“So, what is this? Day two or three of your week of research?” He looks up, folds his paper in half, and flashes me an irresistible smile as he tilts the bottle to his lips. “Because I think I lost track.” He wipes his mouth with his hand, then his hand on his knee.
I frown, tipping my bottle from side to side, watching the elixir spark and flare as it races up to the rim then back down again. Gnawing my lip, trying to figure out just where to start, then deciding it’s better to dive in, that there’s no reason to delay the inevitable when al paths ultimately lead to the same destination. I discard the usual preemptive pleas of: Please don’t be mad, or, just as ineffective: Please hear me out, in favor of the cleanly stated truth, saying, “I’ve decided to go on that journey.”
He looks at me, face lifting, eyes brightening, the sight of it fil ing me with instant relief—a relief that’s short lived, vanishing the moment I realize he mistook my use of the word “journey” for the vacation he’s planning.
“Oh, no, not … not that, ” I mumble, feeling about this big when I see his face drop. “I meant the journey that Lotus referred to. Though if things go as I wel as I hope, then we should have plenty of time for that too.” My hands flop in my lap as I try to force a smile onto my face, but it doesn’t get very far. It’s a false move on my part, and he knows it too.
He turns away, seemingly speechless at what I just said. But by the way his fingers grip his elixir, by the way his jaw tightens and clenches, I know he’s at no loss for words, he’s merely attempting to gather and sort them. He won’t stay silent for long.
“You’re serious.” He final y faces me. The words sounding more like a statement than the accusation I expected.
I nod, quick to chase it with an apology. “And I’m sorry. I know you’re probably not very happy to hear that.”
He looks me over, arranging his face in a way I can’t read. His words careful,
measured, when he says, “No, I can’t say that I am.” The tone exhibiting an enormous amount of self-control his energy can’t seem to mimic. Even though he has no visible aura, I can feel his vibration. I can feel his pulse quickening.
He starts to speak again, but before he can get to the words I flash my palm and stop him right there, saying, “Listen, I know what you’re going to say, trust me I do. You’re going to tel me she’s crazy, that it’s dangerous, that I need to ignore her and move on, to give you some more time to find a way for us to be able to touch each other again…” I pause for a beat, not al owing enough time for him to respond before I’m at it again. “But here’s the thing, it’s not just about us being together in the way that we want. It’s about my destiny.
My fate. My reason for being—the reason I keep coming back, being born over and over again. I have to go, there’s real y no choice.
And while I know you don’t like it, and while I know you won’t like it no matter how good an argument I wage, I’m wil ing to settle for mere grudging acceptance. Basical y, I’l settle for whatever I can get. Because Damen, while there’s definitely a good chance that she’s stark-raving crazy, there’s also just as good a chance that she’s onto something real. And I just know in my heart that this is what I need to—no, scratch that, I know in my soul that this is what I’m meant to do. It’s like she said, it’s a destiny only I can fulfil . And while I wish you could join me, while I wish that more than anything, she made it very clear that you can’t. And…” I gulp, the lump in my throat like a hot, angry firebal , but stil I push past it and add, “And I just hope you can find a way to accept that, even if you can’t get around to supporting it.”
Damen nods, taking his time to formulate a reply. Thrusting his legs out before him, crossing them at the ankle as his fingers trace the rim of the bottle. “So, what you’re tel ing me is that nothing I can say or do wil stop you from going through with this? From setting out on your own?”