by Alyson Noel
He motions for me to take one of the seats as he perches on the adjacent one, regarding me seriously as he says, “I would guide you through a meditation that’ll help strengthen your aura—but since I can’t actually see your aura, I have no idea if it needs strengthening.”
I press my lips together and cross my right leg over my left, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, unsure how to respond.
“Sometime you’ll have to tell me how you hide it like that. I’d love to learn your technique.”
I swallow hard and nod slightly, as though I might just do that someday, but not now.
Keeping his voice low and smooth, almost to a whisper, he says, “Close your eyes and relax, breathing slowly and deeply as you picture a swirl of pure golden energy with each intake of breath, followed by a swirl of dark mist with each outtake. Breathing in the good—ridding yourself of the bad. Continuing this cycle again and again, allowing only good energy to work its way through your cells, until you feel cleansed and whole and ready to begin.”
I do as he says, reminded of the grounding meditation Ava once put me through, concentrating on my breath, keeping it slow, steady, and even. At first feeling self-conscious under the weight of his gaze, knowing he’s studying me closer than he would if my eyes were open, but soon, I’m pulled into the rhythm—pulse calming, mind clearing, concentrating on nothing but breathing.
“Then, when you’re ready, imagine a cone of the most brilliant, golden white light reaching down from the heavens and descending upon you—growing and expanding in size until it bathes you completely—surrounding your entire being and allowing no lower energies or negative force fields to creep in—keeping all your positivity fully intact, safe from those who might leech it.”
I open an eye, peeking at him, never having thought of someone trying to steal my chi.
“Trust me,” he says, waving his hand, motioning for me to close my eyes and return to the meditation again. “Now imagine that same light as a powerful fortress, repelling all darkness while keeping you safe.”
So I do. Seeing myself in my mind, sitting on that chair, with a cone of light extending from above and moving down past my hair, over my tee, and well past my jeans to my flip-flops below. Enveloping me completely, keeping the good stuff in, and the bad stuff out—just like he said.
“How does it feel?” he asks, voice much closer than I expected.
“Good.” I nod, holding the cone of light in my mind, keeping it steady and bright. “It feels warm and—welcoming—and—good.” I shrug, more interested in enjoying the experience than rooting around for just the right word.
“You need to repeat that every day—but this is the longest it should ever take. Once you’ve imprinted yourself with the cone of light, all you need to do to maintain it is a few of those deep cleansing breaths, followed by a quick image of you sealed by the light, and you’re good to go. Though it’s not a bad idea to renew it now and then—especially since you’re about to become very popular around here.”
He places his hand on my shoulder, palm flat and open, fingers splayed across the cotton of my tee, the sensation so shocking, so jolting, the images so revealing, I jump to my feet.
“Damen!” I cry, voice hoarse, scratchy, as I turn to find him at the door, watching me—watching us.
He nods, gaze meeting mine in what, at first seems his usual loving way—filled with a complete and total reverence for me. But the longer it holds, the more I sense something behind it. Something dark. Troubling. Something he’s determined to keep.
I move toward him, clasping his hand as it reaches toward mine, aware of the protective shield of energy that hovers between us—an energy I was certain no one could see, until I notice Jude squinting.
I peer at Damen, unable to determine the big hidden thing in his gaze, wondering what he’s doing here, if he somehow sensed this.
His arm tightens around me, pulling me near when he says, “Sorry to interrupt, but Ever and I have somewhere to be.”
I gaze up, drinking him in—the smooth planes of his face, the swell of his lips—the tingle and heat strumming from his body to mine.
Jude rises and follows us into the hall, saying, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep her so long.” His hand reaching toward me, glancing my shoulder then falling away as he adds, “Oh, I forgot—the book! Why don’t you take it, it’s not like I need it around here.”
He turns back toward the desk, about to retrieve it from the drawer, and even though I’m tempted to grab it and run, with the way Damen stiffens as Jude’s aura grows brighter—well, it’s beginning to feel like a test. And it’s all I can do to force the words past my lips when I say, “Thanks, but not tonight. Damen and I have plans.”
Damen’s energy relaxes, returning to normal as Jude’s gaze dances between us. “No worries,” he says. “Another time.” Holding the gaze for so long, I’m the first to turn away.
Leading Damen out the door and onto the street, determined to shake off Jude’s energy, along with the thoughts and images he unwittingly shared.
thirty
“So you kept it.” I smile, settling into his BMW, happy to see he’s kept it in place of Big Ugly.
He looks at me, eyes still serious but voice light when he says, “You were right. I went a little overboard with the whole safety thing. Not to mention, this is a much better ride.”
I gaze out the window, wondering what sort of adventure he’s planned, but figuring he wants to surprise me as usual. Watching as he pulls onto the street and weaves through the traffic until we’re clear of all cars and he picks up the speed. Pushing the gas and accelerating so quickly, I have no idea where we’re going, until we’re already there.
“What’s this?” I gaze around, amazed by his ability to always do the least expected thing.
“I figured you’d never been here.” He opens my door and takes my hand. “Was I right?”
I nod, taking in a barren desert landscape, dotted only by the occasional shrub, a mountainous backdrop, and thousands of windmills. Seriously thousands. All of them tall. All of them white. All of them turning.
“It’s a windmill farm.” He nods, hoisting himself onto the trunk of his car and dusting off a space for me to sit too. “It produces electricity by harnessing the wind. In just one hour it can make enough electricity to run a typical household for a month.”
I glance all around, taking in the turning blades and wondering what the significance could be. “So, why’d we come here? I’m a little confused.”
He takes a deep breath, gaze far away, expression wistful when he says, “I find myself drawn to this place. I guess because I’ve borne witness to so much change during the last six hundred years, and harnessing the wind is a very old idea.”
I squint, still not getting its importance, but definitely sensing there is one.
“Despite all the technological changes and advances I’ve seen—some things—things like this—remain pretty much the same.”
I nod, silently urging him on, sensing something much deeper in his words, but knowing he’s choosing to dole them out slowly.
“Technology advances so quickly, making the familiar obsolete at an increasingly rapid pace. And while things like fashion may seem to advance and change, if you live long enough, you realize it’s really just cyclical—the readapting of old ideas made to seem new. But while everything around us seems to be in a constant state of flux—people at their very core remain exactly the same. All of us still seeking the things we’ve sought all along—shelter, food, love, greater meaning—” He shakes his head. “A quest that’s immune to evolution.”
He looks at me with eyes so deep and dark, I can’t imagine what it’s like to be him. To have witnessed so much, to know so much, to have done so much—and yet, despite what he thinks, he’s not the slightest bit jaded. He’s still full of dreams.
“And once the basics are covered, once we’ve secured food and shelter, we spend the rest of our time just looking to be love
d.”
He leans toward me, lips cool and soft as they brush my skin—fleeting, ephemeral, like a sweet desert breeze. Pulling away to gaze at the windmills again when he says, “The Netherlands is known for their windmills. And since you did spend a lifetime there, I thought you might want to visit.”
I squint, thinking he surely misspoke. We’ve no time for that trip—do we?
Watching as he smiles, gaze growing lighter as he says, “Close your eyes and come with me.”
thirty-one
We tumble forward, hands clasped together as we land with a thud. Taking a moment to look around when I say, “Omigod—this is—”
“Amsterdam.” He nods, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the mist. “Only not the real Amsterdam, the Summerland version. I would’ve taken you to the real one, but I figured this trip was shorter.”
I gaze all around, taking in the canals, the bridges, the windmills, the fields of red tulips—wondering if he created that last part for me, then remembering how Holland is famous for its flowers—especially its tulips.
“You don’t recognize it, do you?” he asks, studying me carefully as I shake my head. “Give it some time, you will. I’ve recreated it from memory, how I remember it back in the nineteenth century when you and I were last there. It’s a pretty good copy if I say so myself.”
He leads me across the street, pausing long enough to allow an empty carriage to pass, before continuing to a small storefront, its door wide open, as a lively crowd of faceless people gather inside. Watching me carefully, eager to see if a memory’s sparked, but I move away, wanting to get a feel on my own, trying to picture the former me in this place—the red-haired, green-eyed me—walking among these white walls, wood floors at my feet, gazing at the line of paintings dotting the perimeter as I weave through the patrons who begin to fade at the edges before strengthening again. Knowing that Damen’s responsible for keeping them here, having manifested their very existence.
I move along the walls, assuming this is a re-creation of the gallery where we first met, though disappointed to find it not the least bit familiar. Noting how all the paintings blur and fade until they’re completely imperceptible, except for the one just before me, the only one that’s intact.
I lean forward, squinting at a girl with abundant titian hair—a luxurious blend of reds, golds, and browns contrasting so beautifully with her expanse of pale skin. Painted in a way so tangible, so smooth, so inviting—it’s as though one could step in.
My gaze roams the length of her, seeing she’s nude though strategically covered. The ends of her hair damp and conforming, tumbling over her shoulders and hanging well past her waist, while her hands are folded, resting atop a pink flushed thigh turned slightly in. Though it’s the eyes that grab me, made of the deepest green and holding a gaze so direct, so open, as though staring at a lover, not the least bit ashamed at having been caught in this state.
My stomach twitches, while my heart begins to flutter, and even though I’m aware of Damen standing right there beside me, I can’t look at him. Can’t include him in this. Something is creeping upon me, the birth of an idea tugging, nudging, demanding to be known. And before I’ve even blinked, I see it. As sure as I see the gilt frame surrounding the canvas, I know that the woman is me!
The prior me.
The Dutch me.
The artist’s muse me who fell for Damen the night we met in this gallery.
But the thing that disturbs me, the thing that keeps me quiet and still, is the sudden realization that the unseen lover she gazes upon isn’t Damen.
It’s somebody else.
Someone unseen.
“So you recognize her.” Damen’s voice smooth, matter-of-fact, not the least bit surprised that I do. “It’s the eyes, right?” He peers at me, face very close when he adds, “The color may change, but their essence stays the same.”
I glance at him, taking in the lush fringe of lashes that nearly obscure the wistfulness of his gaze—prompting me to quickly turn away.
How old was I? Not trusting my voice with the words. The face appearing unlined and youthful, though the confidence is that of a woman, not a girl.
“Eighteen.” He nods, continuing to study me. Gaze pushing, probing, wanting me to be the first one to say it, pleading for me to just speak up—to spare him this task. Following my gaze to the painting as he adds, “You were beautiful. Truly. Just like this. He captured you so—perfectly.”
He.
So there it is.
The edge in his voice speaking volumes—revealing everything his words only hint at. He knows the identity of the artist. Knows it wasn’t him I unclothed myself for.
I swallow hard, eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of the black, angular scrawl at the bottom right corner. Deciphering a series of consonants and vowels, a combination of letters that mean nothing to me.
“Bastiaan de Kool,” Damen says, gazing at me.
I turn, my eyes meeting his, unable to speak.
“Bastiaan de Kool is the artist who painted this. Painted you.” He turns toward the portrait, eyes roaming over it again, before returning to me.
I shake my head, feeling light, woozy—everything I once thought I knew—about me—about us—the entire foundation of our lives suddenly gone tenuous and weak.
Damen nods, there’s no need to press it. Both of us recognizing the truth displayed right before us.
“In case you’re wondering, it was over before the paint even dried. Or at least that’s what I convinced myself of—” He shakes his head. “But now—well, I’m no longer sure.”
I gape, eyes wide, uncomprehending. What could this painting—this century-old version of me—have anything to do with us—the way we are now?
“Would you like to meet him?” he asks, gaze shadowed, distant, difficult to read.
“Bastiaan?” The name oddly comfortable on my lips.
Damen nods, willing to manifest him if I’ll only agree. But just as I’m about to refuse, he places his hand on my arm and says, “I think you should. It only seems fair.”
I take a deep breath, focusing on the warmth of his hand as he closes his eyes in deep concentration, summoning a tall, rangy, slightly disheveled guy from what was once empty space. Letting go of my arm as he moves away, allowing me plenty of room in which to study, observe, before we run out of time and he fades.
I move toward him, walking slow, wide circles around this blank, hollow stranger—this bright, empty, creation—soulless, unreal.
Noting his traits in an offhand way—the height making him appear even slighter, the hint of lean, sinewy muscle lightly padding his bones—the clothes that are clean and of decent quality and cut, hanging slightly off kilter, the skin so pale and flawless it nearly matches my own, while his hair is dark, wavy, brushed to the side, a good chunk of bang falling heavily into a startling pair of eyes.
I gasp, forcing the air into my lungs as he soon fades away, hearing Damen say, “Would you like me to refresh him again?” Obviously hating to do so, but willing to oblige if I ask.
But I just continue to stand there, staring into a swirl of vibrating pixels that soon vanish completely. Knowing I don’t need him revived to know who he is.
Jude.
The guy who was standing before me, the Dutch artist who went by the name of Bastiaan de Kool in the nineteenth century—has now reincarnated into this century as Jude.
I reach for something to steady me, feeling shaky, empty, off balance. Realizing too late that there’s nothing to catch me, until Damen quickly moves to my side.
“Ever!” he cries, voice so urgent it resonates to my core, his arms tightening around me, shielding me in a way that feels just like home. Manifesting a soft, plushy couch where he guides me to sit, his gaze hovering over me, anxious, unnerved, having no intention of upsetting me like this.
I turn, holding my breath as my eyes meet his, afraid of finding something different, something changed, now that it’s all laid out in the
open. Now that we both know it wasn’t always just him.
That there was once someone else.
And I know him today.
“I don’t—” I shake my head, feeling embarrassed, guilty, as though I’ve somehow betrayed him by unknowingly seeking him out. “I’m not sure what to say—I—”
Damen shakes his head, his hand at my cheek, drawing me near. “Don’t think that,” he says. “None of this is your fault. You hear me? None of it. It’s just karma.” He pauses, gaze holding mine. “It’s just unfinished business—so to speak.”
“But what could be unfinished?” I ask, having an inkling of an idea of where this is going and refusing to take part in that journey. “That was over a hundred years ago! And like you said, it was over before the paint even—”
But before I can get there, he’s shaking his head, hand on my cheek, my shoulder, my knee, as he says, “I’m no longer so sure about that.”
I look at him, fighting the urge to pull away. Wishing he’d stop. Wanting to leave. No longer liking it here.
“It seems I’ve interfered,” he says, face hard, judgmental, though it’s a judgment reserved only for him. “It seems I have a habit of intruding on your life, meddling in decisions that should’ve been yours. Pushing a fate that”—he pauses, jaw clenched, gaze steady, though his lip quivers in a way that reveals the price of all this—“that was never meant to be yours—”
“What are you talking about?” I cry, voice high, urgent, sensing the energy surrounding his words, and knowing it’s about to get worse.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He looks at me, the light in his eyes fractured into millions of bits—a kaleidoscope of darkness that may never be fixed.
He rises from the couch in one quick, sinuous move until he’s filling the space just before me. But before he can speak, before he can make things even worse, I rush ahead when I say, “This is ridiculous! All of it! Everything! It’s destiny that’s brought us together again and again. We’re soul mates! You said it yourself! And from what I’ve learned, that’s exactly how it works—soul mates find each other, time and again, against all odds, no matter what!” I reach for his hand but he’s slipped just out of reach, pacing before me, avoiding my touch.