"Maybe." She shrugs. "But all my black scarves were gone, so I had to borrow this one from my brother." She lifts the end of her blue wool scarf and waves it around.
"Was anyone there to take care of you?" Damen asks, coming up beside me and taking my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine, sending a flood of warmth through my system.
Haven shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "Are you kidding? I may as well be emancipated like you. Besides, I had my door locked the whole time. I could've died in there and nobody would've known."
"What about Drina?" I ask, my stomach clenching at the mention of her name.
Haven gives me a strange look and says, "Drina's in New York. She left Friday night. Anyway, I hope you guys don't get it, because even though some of the dream-state stuff was pretty cool, I know you guys wouldn't be into it." She stops near her class and leans against the wall.
"Did you dream about a canyon?" I ask, dropping Damen's hand, and moving so close I'm right up in her face again.
But Haven just laughs and pushes me away. "Um, excuse me, boundaries!" She shakes her head. "And no, there were no canyons. Just some wild goth stuff, hard to explain, though plenty of blood and gore."
And the second she says that, the second I hear the word "blood," everything goes black as my body tilts toward the floor.
"Ever?" Damen cries, catching me just seconds before I crash to the ground. "Ever," he whispers, his voice tinged with worry.
And when I open my eyes to meet his, something about his expression, something about the intensity of his gaze seems so familiar. But just as the memory begins to form, it's erased by the sound of Haven's voice.
"That's exactly how it starts." She nods. "I mean, I didn't pass out until later, but still, it definitely started with a major dizzy spell."
"Maybe she's pregnant?" Miles says, loud enough for several passing students to hear.
"Not likely," I say, surprised by how much better I feel, now that I'm wrapped in Damen's warm, supportive arms. "I'm okay, really." I stagger to my feet and move away.
"You should take her home," Miles says, looking at Damen.
"She looks awful."
"Yeah." Haven nods. "You should rest, seriously. You so don't want to catch it."
But even though I insist on going to class, nobody listens to me. And the next thing I know, Damen's arm is wrapped around my waist and he's leading me back to his car.
"This is ridiculous," I say, as he pulls out of the parking lot and heads away from school.
"Seriously, I'm fine. Not to mention that we're totally gonna get busted for ditching again!"
"No one's getting busted." He glances at me briefly, before focusing back on the road. "May I remind you that you fainted back there? You're lucky I caught you in time."
"Yes, but that's the thing, you did catch me in time. And now I'm fine. Seriously. I mean, if you're really so worried about me, then you should've taken me to the school nurse. You didn't have to kidnap me."
"I'm not kidnapping you," he says, clearly annoyed. "I just want to look after you, make sure you're okay."
"Oh, so now you're a doctor?" I shake my head and roll my eyes.
But he doesn't say anything. He just cruises up Coast Highway, passing right by the street that leads to my house until eventually stopping before a big imposing gate.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask, watching as he nods at a familiar attendant, who smiles and waves us right through.
"My house," he mumbles, driving up a steep hill before making a series of turns that lead into a cul-de-sac and a big empty garage at the end.
Then he takes my hand and leads me through a well appointed kitchen and into the den where I stand, hands on hips, taking in all of his beautiful furnishings, the exact opposite of the frat-house chic I expected.
"Is this really all yours?" I ask, running my hand over a plush chenille sofa as my eyes tour exquisite lamps, Persian rugs, a collection of abstract oil paintings, and the dark wood coffee table covered in art books, candles, and a framed photo of me. "When'd you take this?" I lift it off the table and study it closely, having absolutely no memory of the moment.
"You act like you've never been here before," he says, motioning for me to sit.
"I haven't." I shrug.
"You have," he insists. "Last Sunday? After the beach? I've even got your wet suit hanging upstairs. Now sit." He pats the sofa cushion: "I want to see you resting."
I sink down into the overstuffed cushions, still clutching the photo and wondering when it was taken. My hair is long and loose, my face is slightly flushed, and I'm wearing a peach colored hoodie I'd forgotten I had. But even though I appear to be laughing, my eyes are sad and serious.
"I took that one day at school. When you weren't looking. I prefer candid shots, it's the only way to really capture the essence of a person," he says, removing it from my grip and retuning it to the table. "Now; close your eyes and rest, while I make you some tea."
When the tea is ready he places the cup in my hands, then busies himself with the thick wool throw; tucking it in all around me.
"This is really nice and all, but it's not necessary," I say, placing the cup on the table and glancing at my watch, thinking if we leave right now; I can still make it to second period in time.
"Seriously. I'm fine. We should get back to school."
"Ever, you fainted," he says, sitting down beside me, his eyes searching my face as he touches my hair.
"Stuff happens." I shrug, embarrassed by all the fussing, especially when I know nothing's wrong.
"Not on my watch," he whispers, moving his hand from my hair to the scar on my face.
"Don't." I pull away just before he can touch it, watching as his hand falls back to his side.
"What's wrong?" he asks, peering at me.
"I don't want you to catch it," I lie, not wanting to admit to the truth-that the scar is for me, and me only. A constant reminder, ensuring I'll never forget. That's why I refused the plastic surgeon, refused to let him "fix" it. Knowing what happened could never be fixed. It's my fault, my private pain, which is why I hide it under my bangs.
But he just laughs when he says, "I don't get sick."
I close my eyes and shake my head, and when I open them I say, "Oh, so now you don't get sick?"
He shrugs and brings the cup to my lips, urging me to drink. I take a small sip then turn my head and push it away, saying, "So let's see, you don't get sick, you don't get in trouble for truancy, you get straight As despite said truancy, you pick up a paint brush and voila, you make a Picasso better than Picasso. You can cook a meal as good as any five-star chef, you used to model in New York-which was right before you lived in Santa Fe, which came after you lived in London, Romania, Paris, and Egypt; you're unemployed and emancipated, yet you somehow manage to live in a luxuriously decorated multimillion-dollar dream home, you drive an expensive car, and-"
"Rome," he says, giving me a serious look. "What?"
"You said I lived in Romania, when it was actually Rome,"
I roll my eyes. "Whatever, the point is-" I stop, my words caught in my throat.
"Yes?" He leans toward me. "The point is… "
I swallow hard and avert my gaze, my mind grasping the edges of something, something that's been gnawing at me for some time. Something about Damen, something about that almost, otherworldly, quality of his-is he a ghost like Riley? No, that's impossible, everyone can see him.
"Ever," he says, his palm on my cheek, turning my head so I'm facing him again. "Ever, I-"
But before he can finish, I'm off the couch and out of his reach, tossing the throw from my shoulders and refusing to look at him when I say, "Take me home."
Twenty-Six
The second Damen pulls into my drive, I jump out of the car and hit the ground running, racing through the front door and taking the stairs two at a time, hoping and praying that Riley will be there. I need to see her, need to talk to her about all the crazy thoughts that are
building inside me. She's the only one I can even begin to explain it to, the ('jnly one who just might understand.
I check my den, my bathroom, my balcony, I stand in my room and call out her name, feeling strange, hectic, shaky, panicked in a way that I can't quite explain.
But when she fails to appear, I crumble onto my bed, curl my body into a smal tight ball, and relive her loss all over again.
"Ever, honey, are you okay?" Sabine drops her bags and kneels down beside me, her palm cool and sure against my hot clammy skin.
I close my eyes and shake my head, knowing that despite the fainting spell, despite my recent bout of exhaustion, I'm not sick. At least not in the way that she means. It's more complicated than that, and not so easily cured.
I roll onto my side, using the edge of my pillowcase to wipe at my tears, then I turn to her and say, "Sometimes-sometimes it just hits me, you know? And, it's not getting any easier," I choke, my eyes flooding all over again.
She gazes at me, her face softened by sorrow as she says, "I'm not sure that it will. I think you just get used to the feeling, the hollowness, the loss, and somehow learn to live around it." She smiles, removing my tears with her hand.
And when she lies down beside me, I don't pull away. I just close my eyes and allow myself to feel her pain, and my pain, until it's all mixed together, raw and deep with no begi,nning or end.
And we stay like that, crying and talking and sharing in the way we should've done long ago. If only I'd let her in. If only I hadn't pushed her, away.
And when she finally gets up to make us some dinner, she pilfers through her tote bag and says, "Look what I found in the trunk of my car. I borrowed it ages ago after you first moved here. I didn't realize I had it all this time."
Then she tosses me the peach hoodie. The one I'd forgotten all about.
The one I haven't worn since the first week of school.
The one I was wearing in the picture on Damen's coffee table even though we hadn't yet met.
The next day at school, I drive right past Damen, and that stupid spot he always saves for me, and park in what seems like the other side of the world.
"What the hell?" Miles says, gaping incredulously. "You drove right past it! And now look how far we have to walk!"
I slam my door and storm across the lot, marching right past Damen who's leaning against his car, waiting for me.
"Um, hel-lo! Tall dark and handsome at three o'clock, you walked right by him! What is going on with you?" Miles says, grabbing my arm and looking at me. "Are you guys in a fight?"
But I just shake my head and pull away. "Nothing's going on,"
I say, striding toward the building.
Even though the last time I checked Damen was well behind me when I walk into class and head for my seat, he's already , there. So I raise my hood and switch on my iPod, making a point to ignore him, while I wait for Mr. Robins to call roll.
"Ever," Damen whispers, as I stare straight ahead, focusing on Mr. Robins's receding hairline, just waiting for my turn to say "Ever, I know you're upset. But I can explain." I stare straight ahead, pretending not to hear. "Ever: please," Damen begs.
But I just act like he's not even there. And just when Mr.
Robins gets to my name, Damen sighs, closes his eyes, and says, "Pine. Just remember, you asked for it."
And the next thing I know; a horrible thwonk! resonates throughout the room, as nineteen heads hit the tops of their desks.
Everyone's head but Damen's and mine.
I gaze all around, mouth gaping, eyes trying to comprehend, and when I finally turn back to Damen, staring accusingly, he just shrugs and says, "This is exactly what I'd hoped to avoid."
"What've you done?" I stare at all the limp bodies, a terrible understanding beginning to emerge. "Omigod, you killed them! You killed everyone!" I shout, my heart pounding so fast I'm sure he can hear it.
But he just shakes his head and says, "Come on, Ever. What do you take me for? Of course, I didn't kill them. They're just taking a little… siesta, that's all."
I scoot to the edge of my seat, my eyes fixed on the door, plotting my escape.
"You can try, but you won't get very far. You see how I beat you to class even though you had a head start?" He crosses his legs and gazes at me, his face calm, voice steady as can be.
"You can read my mind?" I whisper, recalling some of my more embarrassing thoughts, my cheeks growing hot as my fingers grip the edge of my desk.
"Usually." He shrugs. "Well, pretty much always, yes."
"For how long?" I stare at him, part of me wanting to take my chance on escape, while the other part wants to get a few questions answered before my most certain demise.
"Since the first day I saw you," he whispers, his gaze locked on mine, sending a flood of warmth through my body.
"And when was that?" I ask, voice trembling, remembering the photo on his table, and wondering just how long he's been stalking me.
"I'm not stalking you." He laughs. "At least not in the way that you think."
"Why should I believe you?" I glare, knowing better than to trust him, no matter how trivial.
"Because I've never lied to you."
"You're lying now!"
"I've never lied to you about anything important," he says, averting his gaze.
"Oh really? What about the fact that you took a photo of me long before you were even enrolled here? Where does that fall on your list of important things to share in a relationship?" I glare.
He sighs, his eyes appearing tired when he says, "And where does being a clairvoyant who hangs out with her dead little sister fall upon yours?"
"You don't know anything about me." I stand, hands sweaty and shaky, heart slam-dancing in my chest, as I stare at all of the slumped-over bodies, Stacia with her mouth hanging open, Craig snoring so loud he's vibrating; Mr. Robins looking more happy and peaceful than I've ever seen him. "Is it the whole school? Or just this room?"
"I can't be sure, but I'm guessing it's the whole school." He nods, smiling as he glances around, clearly pleased with his handiwork.
And without another word, I spring from my seat, race out the door, sprint down the hall, across the quad, and through the office. Fleeing past all the slumped-over secretaries and administrators sleeping at their desks, before bursting through the door and into the parking lot, running toward my little red Miata, where Damen is already waiting, my bag dangling from the very tips of his fingers.
"I told you." He shrugs, returning my backpack.
I stand before him, sweaty, frantic, completely freaked out.
All of those long-forgotten moments flashing before me-his blood-covered face, Haven thrashing and moaning, that weird creepy room-and I know he did something to my mind, something to keep me from remembering. And even though I'm no match for someone like him, I refuse to go down without a fight.
"Ever!" he cries, reaching toward me, then letting his hand fall to his side. "You think I did all of this so that I can kill you?" His eyes are full of anguish, frantically searching my face.
"Isn't that the plan?" I glare. "Haven thinks it's all some wild, goth, fever dream. I'm the only one who knows the truth. I'm the only one who knows just how big of a monster you really are.
The only thing I don't get is why you didn't just kill us both while you had the chance? Why bother suppressing the memory and keeping me alive?"
"I would never hurt you," he says, his eyes pinched with pain.
"You've got it all wrong, I was trying to save Haven, not harm her. You just wouldn't listen."
"Then why did she look like she was on the brink of death?"
I press my lips together to stop them from quivering, my eyes fixed on his but refusing their heat.
"Because she was on the brink of death," he says, sounding annoyed. "That tattoo on her wrist was infected in the worst way-it was killing her. When you walked in on us I was sucking the infection right out of her, like you do with a snake bite."
r /> I shake my head. "I know what I saw:"
He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and taking a long deep breath before he looks at me and says, "I know how it looks. And I know you don't believe me.
But I've been trying to explain and you just wouldn't let me, so I did all of this to get your attention. Because, Ever, trust me, you've got it all wrong."
He looks at me, his eyes dark and intense, his hands relaxed and open, but I'm not buying it.
Not a single word. He's had hundreds, maybe thousands of years to perfect such an act, resulting in a really good show, but still only a show: And even though I can't believe I'm about to say it, even though I can't quite get my mind wrapped around it, there's only one explanation, no matter how crazy.
"All I know is that I want you to go back to your coffin, or your coven, or wherever it is that you lived before you came here and-" I gasp for breath, feeling like I'm trapped in some horrible nightmare, wishing I'd wake up soon. 'Just leave me alone-just go away!"
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, stifling a laugh as he says. "I'm not a vampire, Ever."
"Oh, yeah? Prove it!" I say, my voice shaky, my eyes on his, fully convinced I'm just a rosary, garlic clove, and wooden stake short of ending all this.
But he just laughs. "Don't be ridiculous. There's no such thing."
"I know what I saw," I tell him, picturing the blood, Haven, that strange and creepy room, knowing that as soon as I see it, he'll see it too. Wondering how he'll possibly try to explain his friendship with Marie Antoinette, Picasso, Van Gogh, Emily Bronte, and William Shakespearewhen they lived centuries apart.
He shakes his head, then looks at me and says, "Well, for that matter, I was also a good friend of Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli, Francis Bacon, Albert Einstein, and John, Paul, George, and Ringo." He pauses, seeing the blank look on my face and groaning when he says, "Christ, Ever, the Beatles!" He shakes his head and laughs. "God, you make me feel old."
I just stand there, barely breathing, not comprehending, but when he reaches for me, I still have the good sense to pull away. "I'm not a vampire, Ever. I'm an immortal."