Instead of binding Roman to me—I bound myself to him.
Instead of him seeking me out in order to do my bidding—I’m shamelessly, hopelessly, seeking him.
Which is something Damen can never know. No one can know. Not only does it prove his earlier warning about the downside of magick, insisting that it’s nothing to be toyed with, and that amateurs who immerse themselves too quickly often wind up in way over their heads—it may be the end of his patience with me.
It may be that last and final straw.
I take a deep breath and sink even lower, enjoying the way the water laps at my chin, as I soak up all the healing energies that the stones and herbs are meant to provide, knowing it’s just a matter of time before I rid myself of this unholy obsession and put everything right. And when the water begins to cool, I scrub every square inch of skin, hoping to wash away this new tainted version of me in order to recover the old, then I climb out of the bath and straight into my white silk hooded robe. Tying the sash snugly as I head back into my closet and reach for my athame. The same one Romy and Rayne criticized, claiming it was too sharp, that its intent should be to cut energy not matter, that I’d made it all wrong—urging me to burn it, melt it down to a stub of metal, and hand it over to them so they could complete the banishing ritual, not trusting such a complex task to a misguided novice like me.
And though I agreed to burn it before them, running the blade through the flame again and again in a sort of magical sanctification, I shrugged off the rest of their plan, convinced they were just seizing the chance to make an even bigger fool of me. I mean, if the real problem, as they claimed, was my weaving a spell on the night of the dark moon, then what difference could a simple knife make?
But this time around, just to make sure, I add a few additional stones to its handle, adorning it with Apache’s tear for protection and luck (which the twins are convinced I’ll need plenty of), bloodstone for courage, strength, and victory (always a good combination), and turquoise for healing and strengthening of the chakras (apparently my throat chakra, the center of discernment, has always been a problem for me). Then sprinkling the blade with a handful of salt before running it through the flame of three white tapers, I call upon the elements of fire, air, water, and earth, to cast away all dark and allow only light—to push out all evil and summon the good. Repeating the chant three times before calling on the highest of magical powers to see that it’s done. This time sure that I’m calling on the right magical powers—summoning the goddess instead of Hecate, the three-headed, snake-haired, queen of the underworld.
Cleansing the space as I walk three times around it, incense held high in one hand, athame in the other, pulling up the magick circle by visualizing a white light flowing through me. Starting at the top of my head and working its way through my body, down my arm, out the athame, and into the floor. Weaving and curving and circling around and around, encouraging thin strands of the brightest white light to entwine and grow and reach ever higher until joining as one. Until I’m wrapped in a silvery cocoon, a complex web of the brightest, most shimmering light, that completely seals me in.
I kneel on the floor of my clean, sacred space, left hand held before me as I trace the blade down the length of my lifeline, sucking in a sharp intake of breath as I plunge the tip deep into my flesh and a great swell of blood rushes out. Closing my eyes and quickly manifesting Roman sitting cross-legged before me, tempting me with his irresistible, deep blue gaze and wide inviting smile. Struggling to get past his mesmerizing beauty, his undeniable allure, and straight to the blood-soaked cord tied snug at his neck.
A cord soaked with my blood.
The same cord I placed there last Thursday night when I created a similar ritual—one that seemed to work until everything went tragically wrong. But this time, everything is different. My intent is different. I want my blood back. I intend to unbind myself.
Hurrying through the chant before he can fade, singing:
With this knot that I untie
Banish this magick before thine eye
Where once this cord was bound and tight
I now reverse it to set things right
Your hold no longer potent, now loosed on me
I unbind this cord and set myself free
Let it harm none as I send it away
This very change to take hold today
This is my will, my word, my wish—so mote it be!
Squinting against the gale force wind that whirls through my circle, pushing the walls of my web to their limits as a flash of lightning strikes and thunder cracks loud overhead. My right palm raised, open, ready—my gaze locked on his as I mentally loosen the knot at his neck and summon the blood back to me.
Back to where it originated.
Back to where it belongs.
Eyes widening in excitement as it arcs straight toward the center of my wounded hand, the cord around his neck lightening, whitening, until it’s as clean and pure as the day it began.
But just as I’m ready to banish him for good, free myself of this unholy bind, that strange foreign pulse, that hideous intruder, snakes through my insides with such force, such determination, overtaking me so quickly, I can’t stop it.
The monster inside me now fully awakened, rising, stretching, with its insistent, throbbing hunger demanding to be met. Causing my heart to crash violently, my body to shake—and no matter how hard I struggle against it—it’s no use. I’m a hostage to its longing—captive to its desires—I’m of no consequence whatsoever. My only purpose is to meet all its needs—to see that it’s done.
Watching helplessly as the cycle repeats once again. My blood surging forth, soaking the cord at Roman’s neck ’til it sags, red and heavy, dripping a thick trail of me down his chest. And no matter what I do—no matter how hard I try—there’s no stopping it.
No stopping the undeniable lure of his gaze.
No stopping my limbs from yielding toward his.
No stopping this spell that binds me to him.
His body like a magnet that seeks only me, closing the small space between us in less than a second. And now, with our knees pressed tightly together, our foreheads flush—I’m defenseless—powerless—unable to curb this unbearable yearning for him.
He’s all I can see.
All that I need.
My entire world now whittled down to the space between his gaze and mine. His moist, inviting lips just a razor’s width away, as this bold, insistent intruder, this strange, foreign pulse, urges me forward, willing us to mesh, unite, join as one.
My lips push toward his, moving closer, ever closer, when from somewhere down deep, somewhere I can’t quite reach, the memory of Damen, his scent, his image, flickers inside. No more than a brief flash of light in the midst of all this dark—but still enough to remind me of who I am, what I am—my real reason for being here.
Just enough to allow me to break free of this horrible dreamscape and shout, “No!”
I leap back, removing myself from him—from this. Moving so quickly and violently the web collapses around me as the candles extinguish and Roman dissolves from my sight.
The only trace of what just occurred is my crashing heart, bloodstained robe, and the words still reverberating in my throat.
“No, no, no, no, no, oh, God, please, no!”
“Ever?”
I gaze around the closet, fingers frantically clutching at my white silk robe now stained beyond repair, hoping she’ll just go away—give me some space—or at least enough time to figure this out—
“Ever—you okay in there? Dinner’s just about ready, you might want to make your way down!”
“Okay—I’ll . . .” I close my eyes, quickly banishing my robe and manifesting a simple blue dress in its place. Having no idea what to do now, where to go from here. Though one thing is clear—I can’t tell Romy and Rayne—they already witnessed my last flubbed attempt, and I’ll never live this one down. Besides, they’re too close to Damen, and th
ey’ll never forgive me.
“I’ll be there in a sec, really!” I say, sensing her energy from the other side of the door debating whether or not to bust in.
“Five minutes!” she warns, voice resigned. “Then I’m coming in to get you myself!”
I close my eyes and shake my head, shoving my feet into some flip-flops while combing my hands through my hair. Taking great care to ensure everything appears clean and pristine on the outside, because inside, there’s no doubt that things just took a major turn for the worse.
five
I slip out the side gate and onto the street, the soft lilting sounds of Sabine and Munoz laughing and enjoying the last of their wine by the pool drifting behind me as I break into a run. Careful to temper the pace, going neither too fast nor too slow, reluctant to attract any undue attention from anyone who might see.
It was bad enough having to explain it to Sabine. Especially after having just gulped down three-quarters of a barbecued chicken breast, a lump of potato salad, an entire corn on the cob, and a glass and a half of soda—none of which I was the slightest bit interested in, and which, in the end, only seemed to raise a whole new suspicion.
Her voice all raised and squeaky, gone completely high alert when she said, “Now? But it’ll be dark soon—and you just ate!” Her ever-watchful gaze sweeping over me, as a new possibility formed in her brain—exercise bulimia!
Having ruled out anorexia and just plain old bulimia to explain my odd behavior and even odder eating habits—she’s now onto something new, leaving no doubt that a trip to our local bookstore’s self-help aisles will be squeezed into her weekend’s agenda.
And I wish I could explain it to her, sit her right down and say, “Relax. It’s not at all what you think. I’m immortal. The juice is all I need to get by. But right now, I’ve got a little spell-casting problem to fix so—don’t wait up!”
But that’s never gonna happen. It can’t happen. Damen was clear about keeping our immortality a secret. And after seeing what’s happened when it’s gotten into the wrong hands, I have to say I agree with him one hundred percent.
But keeping it a secret has been one of my greatest challenges, and that’s where the jogging comes in. I am now, officially (or at least where Sabine and Munoz are concerned), a person who slips into a T-shirt, sneakers, and shorts and goes for an evening run.
A nice healthy excuse for getting out of the house and away from Munoz, whom I can’t help but like as a person, even though I never wanted to get to know him as a person.
A nice healthy excuse for getting away from an aunt who’s so kind and considerate and helpful toward me that I can’t help but feel like the world’s worst niece for all of the trouble I’ve caused.
A nice healthy excuse to get away from two wonderful, kindhearted people so I can indulge in a much darker, not at all healthy, obsession.
One that’s got a hold on me.
One I’m determined to beat.
I make a swift left onto the next street, noticing how the cars, the pavement, the sidewalks, the windows are all dappled with that burnished gold that the tail end of magic hour brings—the result of the first and last hour of sunlight when everything appears softer, warmer, bathed in the sun’s reddish haze. My muscles pumping, feet moving faster, picking up speed, even though I know better, even though I try to slow down—it’s too dangerous, too risky, someone might see—and yet I keep going. Unable to stop it. No longer the one who controls me.
Aiming for my destination like an arrow on a compass, my entire being is focused on one single point. Cars, houses, people—everything around me is reduced to a single, orangey blur as I close street after street. My heart crashing hard against my chest—but not from the run or the exertion, because the truth is, I’ve barely broken a sweat.
This live wire inside me is all about the proximity.
The simple fact that I’m near—
Getting closer—
Almost there.
Like a siren song propelling me toward uncertain ruin, and I can’t seem to get there quickly enough.
The second I see it, I stop. My gaze narrows as everything around me ceases to exist. Staring at Roman’s door as I will the beast to retreat. Renewing my resolve to overcome this strange, foreign pulse now beating in me, wanting only to slip inside, casually, easily, and confront him once and for all so we can put an end to all this.
Forcing myself to take long, deep breaths as I summon the strength that I’ll need. Just about to take that very first step when I hear my name called from a voice I’d hoped never to hear again.
He saunters toward me, head cocked to the side, as cool and casual as a summer’s breeze. His left arm heavily bandaged and wrapped in a navy blue sling, stopping just shy of me, purposely positioning himself out of my reach, when he says, “What are you doing?”
I swallow hard, relieved to feel the pulse lessening, receding, and yet startled to realize my first instinct isn’t to run, isn’t to finish the job and put the rest of him in a sling too—but to lie. To make any excuse that I can to explain my heated, gaping, practically salivating presence, right outside Roman’s store.
“What’re you doing?” I squint, lids narrowed to slits as I harshly take him in. Knowing it’s hardly a coincidence to find him here too. After all, they’re good friends, members of the same immortal rogue tribe. “Oh, and nice prop, by the way.” I gesture toward his supposedly banged-up arm, which probably provides a pretty good cover for those who don’t know any better. Too bad I do.
He looks at me, shaking his head and rubbing his chin, voice steady, calm, almost convincing, when he says, “Ever, are you okay? You’re not looking so good—”
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Nice try, Jude, I’ll give you that.” Fielding his what the heck are you talking about look with, “Seriously. Faking concern for me, faking an injury, you’re prepared to go all the way with this, aren’t you?”
He frowns, head tilted in a way that allows a few chunks of golden brown dreadlocks to fall over his shoulder and land just a few inches shy of his waist. His deceptively cute and friendly face all scrunched and serious when he says, “Trust me, I’m not faking. Wish I was. Remember when you picked me up like a Frisbee and tossed me across your yard?” He motions toward his arm. “This is the result. A crap load of contusions, a fractured radius, and some seriously messed-up phalanges—or at least that’s what the doctor said.”
I sigh and shake my head. I’ve no time for this charade. I need to get to Roman, show him that he can’t control me—means nothing to me—show him who’s boss around here. Sure that he’s somehow partly responsible for what’s happening to me, and needing to convince him to give me the antidote and put an end to this game.
“While I’m sure it all looks and sounds very believable to most people, unfortunately for you, I’m not most people. I know better. And the fact is, you know I know better. So let’s just cut to the chase, okay? Rogues don’t get hurt. Not for long anyway. They have instantaneous healing abilities, but then you already knew that, didn’t you?”
He looks at me, brows merged in confusion, as he takes a step back. And the truth is, he really does look perplexed, I’ll give him that.
“What’re you talking about?” He gazes all around, before focusing back on me. “Rogues? Are you serious?”
I sigh, fingers drumming hard against my hip when I say, “Um, hel-lo? Evil members of Roman’s tribe? Ring any bells?” I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Don’t pretend you’re not one of them—I saw your tattoo.”
He continues to stare, that same confused, gaping expression still stamped on his face. And all I can think is: Good thing he’s not an actor, he’s got really crummy range.
“Um, hel-lo! The Ouroboros? On your back?” I roll my eyes. “I saw it. You know I saw it. You probably wanted me to see it—or why else would you convince me to get into the Jacuzzi with—” I shake my head. “Whatever, let’s just say it pretty much told me everything I
needed to know. Everything you apparently wanted me to know. So feel free to drop the game anytime now, I’m all clued in.”
He stands before me, good hand rubbing his chin as his eyes search the area as though looking for backup. Like that’s gonna help him. “Ever, I’ve had that tattoo for ages—in fact, I—”
“Oh, I’ll bet.” I nod, refusing to let him finish. “So tell me, how long ago did Roman turn you? Which century would it have been? Eighteenth, nineteenth? C’mon, you can tell me. Even though it was a long time ago, I’m sure you never forget a moment like that.”
He rubs his lips together, encouraging those matching dimples to spring into view, but it doesn’t distract me; that sort of thing no longer works. Not that it ever really did.
“Listen,” he says, struggling to keep his voice low, steady, though his aura tells all, taking a sudden turn toward murky and fragmented, revealing the full extent of his nervousness. “Honestly, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Seriously, Ever, in case you can’t hear it, this is coming off as pretty insane. And the truth is, despite all of that, despite all of this”—he tugs on his sling—“I’d really like to help you—but—well—you seem pretty much beyond all of that with the rogues and the turning and”—he shakes his head—“but let me just ask you this—if this Roman dude’s as bad as you say, then why are you lurking outside his store looking all charged and heated like a dog waiting for its owner?”
I glance between him and the door, cheeks flushing, pulse racing, well aware I’ve been caught in the act, but not about to admit it.
“I’m not lurking—I’m—” I press my lips together, wondering why on earth I’m defending myself when he’s clearly the one who’s up to no good. “Besides, it’s not like I can’t ask you the same question since, I hate to break it to ya, but you’re standing here too.” My eyes rake over him, taking in the bronzed skin, the slightly crooked front teeth—most likely kept that way on purpose, to throw people off—people like me. And those eyes—those amazing blue/green eyes—the same eyes I’ve gazed into for the last four hundred years. But no more. Not since I learned he’s one of them. Now we’re officially through.