by Alyson Noel
He shrugs and rubs his sling protectively. “Nothing sinister, just headed home, that’s all. If you’ll remember, we close early on Saturdays.”
I narrow my gaze, not fooled for a second. It’s all very plausible. Almost believable. But not quite.
“I live up the street.” He motions toward some unknown place in the distance, a place that probably doesn’t even exist. But I don’t follow his hand. My gaze stays on his. I can’t afford to drop my guard. Not even for a second. He may have fooled me before, but now I know better. Now I know what he is.
He takes a step closer, slowly, cautiously, careful to maintain a safe distance still just outside of my reach. “Maybe we can go grab a coffee or something? Go someplace quiet, where we can sit down and talk? You look like you could use a break. What do you say?”
I continue to study him. He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. “Sure.” I smile, nodding in assent. “I’d just love to go someplace quiet, grab a seat, drink some java, and enjoy a nice, long chat—but first, I need you to prove something.”
His body goes tense and his aura—his fake aura—wavers, but I’m not buying it.
“I need you to prove you’re not one of them.”
He squints, face a cloud of concern. “Ever, I don’t know what you’re—”
His words cut short by the sight of the athame now clutched in my hand. Its jewel-encrusted handle an exact replica of the one I used just a few hours before, figuring I’ll need all the luck and protection the stones can provide, especially if this goes the way that I think.
“There’s only one way to prove it,” I say, voice low, gaze locked on his, taking one small step forward that’s soon followed by another. “And I’ll know if you cheat—so don’t even try. Oh, and I should probably warn ya—I can’t be responsible for what happens once I prove that you’re lying. But don’t worry, as you well know, this’ll only hurt for a second—”
He sees me moving, lunging straight for him, and even though he tries his best to dance out of my way, I’m too quick, and I’m on him before he even realizes it.
Seizing his good arm and slicing my athame right through his skin, knowing it’s just a matter of seconds before the blood stops gushing and the wound fuses together again.
Just a matter of time until—
“Oh God!” I whisper, eyes wide, throat dry, watching as he falters, stumbles, and nearly loses his balance.
His eyes darting between me and the gash on his arm, both of us watching as the blood seeps through his clothes and pools onto the street in a growing puddle of red. “Are you crazy?” he shrieks. “What the hell have you done?”
“I—” My mouth hangs open in shock, unable to form any words, unable to tear my gaze away from the gaping gash that I made.
Why isn’t it healing? Why’s it still bleeding? Oh, crap!
“I’m—I’m so sorry—I can explain—I—” I reach toward him, but he moves away, clumsily, unsteadily, wanting nothing more to do with me.
“Listen,” he says, sling pressed to the wound, trying to ebb the flow, but it only makes a much bigger mess. “I don’t know what your deal is, or what’s going on with you, Ever, but we’re done here. You need to walk away—now!”
I shake my head. “Let me take you to the hospital. There’s an emergency room just down the street—and I’ll—”
I close my eyes, manifesting a plush towel to hold against the wound until we can get some professional help. Noticing how pale and unsteady he’s gone, knowing we’ve no time to waste.
Ignoring his protests, I slide my arm around him and lead him toward the car I just manifested. That strange insistent pulse quieted for now, but still forcing me to glance over my shoulder just in time to see Roman watching from behind the window, his eyes shining, face creased with laughter, as he flips the sign over from OPEN to CLOSED.
six
“How is he?”
I toss my magazine on the small table beside me and stand. Careful to address the nurse instead of Jude, since one quick glance is all it takes to see that both of his arms are now heavily bandaged, his aura’s turned red with rage, and if the angry, cruel look in his narrowed eyes is any indication, he clearly wants nothing more to do with me.
The nurse stops, her gaze traversing the sixty-eight inches between my head and my toes. Scrutinizing me so closely I can’t help but cringe—can’t help but wonder just what exactly Jude might’ve told her.
“He’s going to make it,” she says, voice sharp, businesslike, not the least bit friendly. “Cut went all the way to the bone, even made a groove in it, but it was clean. And if he takes his antibiotics, it’ll stay that way. He’ll be in a fair amount of pain, even with the meds I gave him, but if he takes it easy, gets plenty of rest, it should be healed in a matter of weeks.”
Her gaze moves to the door and I follow it. Just in time to see two uniformed members of Laguna Beach’s finest heading right toward me, their eyes darting between Jude and me, and stopping when the nurse nods affirmatively.
I freeze, swallowing past the lump in my throat as I pull my shoulders in, shrinking under the glare of Jude’s dark, hostile gaze. Knowing I deserve every last bit of his anger, deserve to be handcuffed and hauled away—but still—I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I didn’t think it would come to this.
“So, anything you want to tell us?” They stand before me, legs spread wide, hands on hips, eyes hidden between mirrored lenses, taking me in.
I glance between the nurse, Jude, and the cops, knowing this is it. This is what it’s come to. And despite all the trouble I’m in, all I can think is: Who will I pick for my one phone call?
I mean, it’s not like I can ask Sabine to wave her lawyer’s wand and get me out of this one—I’ll never live it down, and it’s not like I can explain it to Damen either. Clearly this is one dilemma I have to deal with alone. . . .
And I’m just about to clear my throat, just about to say something, anything, when Jude jumps in and says, “I already told her”—he nods toward the nurse—“it was a home repair gone wrong. Didn’t know my limits. Guess I’ll definitely have to hire a handyman now.” He forces a smile, forces his gaze to meet mine. And even though I want to smile right back, nod in agreement, and play along, I’m so shocked by his words, at his defending me, it’s all I can do just to stand there and gape.
The cops sigh, obviously unhappy about being called out for nothing, but making one last attempt when they look at Jude and say, “You sure about that? You sure there isn’t more to it? Kind of crazy to take on a home repair when you’re down to one hand . . .” Their heads swivel between us, obviously suspicious but willing to let it go if he is.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” Jude shrugs. “It may be crazy, but it was purely self-inflicted.”
They frown—at him, at me, at the nurse—and then they mumble something about if he decides to change his story and slip a card into his pocket. And the moment they’re gone the nurse clutches her slim well-aerobicized hips, scowls at me, and says, “I gave him something for the pain.” Her gaze busy on mine, clearly not buying a word of Jude’s story, clearly pegging me as an insanely jealous, completely crazed, psycho girlfriend who nicked him in a fit of rage. “It should kick in soon, so I don’t want him driving—not that he can in that condition—” She nods toward his arms. “And make sure he gets this prescription filled.” She holds up a small slip of paper, about to hand it to me, before she thinks better and yanks it right back. “We want to ward off any chance of infection, but the best thing he can do now is to go home and rest. He’ll probably fall right to sleep, so I expect you to leave him alone and let him do just that.” She frowns, her gaze like a challenge.
“I will,” I say, but I’m so freaked by her scrutiny, by the police, by Jude’s defending me, the words come out like a squeak.
Her mouth quirks to the side, obviously reluctant to leave Jude in my care or to hand the prescription over, but she has little choice.
&
nbsp; I follow Jude outside, over to my manifested Miata, an exact replica of the one I usually drive. Feeling awkward, nervous, barely able to look him in the eye.
“Just pull out here and make a right,” he says, voice low, groggy, giving no indication of what he’s truly thinking or just how he might feel about me. And though his aura appears to be softening, there’s still a good bit of red clinging to its edges, a fact that pretty much speaks for itself. “You can drop me at Main Beach. I’ll take it from there.”
“I’m not dropping you at Main Beach,” I say, taking the opportunity to study him as I brake at a light. And even though it’s dark out, there’s no missing the hollows under his eyes, the sheen of sweat on his brow, two unmistakable signs that he’s suffering a great deal of pain—thanks to me. “Seriously, that’s just—ridiculous.” I shake my head. “Just tell me where you live and I promise to get you home safely.”
“Safely?”
He laughs, a sort of ironic chuckle that comes from somewhere down deep, his two messed-up arms resting on his lap as he says, “Funny, you’ve used that word twice in the last five minutes, and to be honest, I’m feeling pretty much anything but safe around you.”
I sigh, gazing into a starless night sky, pressing lightly on the gas and foregoing my usual lead foot since I don’t want to alarm him any more than I already have. “Listen,” I say. “I—I’m sorry. Really and truly—sorry.” Gazing at him for so long, he nods nervously toward the street.
“Uh, traffic?” He shakes his head. “Or do you control that too?”
I avert my gaze and try to think of what to say.
“It’s up here, on the left. The one with the green gate. Just pull into the drive and I’m good to go.”
I do as he says, braking just shy of a garage door that’s the exact shade of green as the gate, immediately killing the engine, which prompts him to say, “Oh no.” He looks at me. “No need for that. Trust me, you are not coming in.”
I shrug, reaching across him, wanting to unlock his door the old-fashioned way instead of the telekinetic way, noticing how he winces when my arm veers too close to his.
“Listen,” I say, back in my seat. “I know you’re tired, and I know you probably want to get as far from me as you possibly can, as quickly as you can, and I can’t say I blame you. I mean, if I were you, I’d feel the same way. But still, if you could just spare me a few more seconds of your time, I’d really like a chance to explain.”
He mumbles under his breath, gazing out the window for a moment before shifting toward me in a way that allows for his full, undivided attention.
And knowing I have to move fast, that he’s prepared to allow me a few seconds and no more, I say, “Listen, it’s like this—I mean, I know it sounds crazy, and I really can’t go into all the details, but you have to trust me when I say I had really good reason to think you were one of them.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, brows squinched with pain, looking at me when he says, “A rogue. Yeah. You’ve made your point, Ever. Made it abundantly clear, remember?” He glances between his injured arms and me.
I scrunch my nose and rub my lips together, knowing this next part probably won’t go over any better, but still forging ahead when I say, “Yeah, well, you see, the thing is—I thought you were evil. Seriously. It’s the only reason I did what I did. I mean, I saw your tattoo—and—I have to say it was pretty convincing—well, except for the fact that it didn’t flash or blink or anything like that—but still, that, coupled with the fact that Ava called, and, well, some other stuff I can’t exactly get into, but anyway, all of that made me think that you—” I shake my head, knowing I’m not getting anywhere with this and choosing to just drop it, abandon it for something that’s been niggling at me ever since we left the hospital. “You know, if you’re so mad at me, if you hate me so much, then why’d you help me back there? Why’d you lie to those cops and take all the blame? I mean, I’m the one who hurt you, we both know I did it, heck, even they knew I did it. But still, you totally blew your big chance to get me cuffed and hauled away and thrown into the slammer when you lied on my behalf. And to be honest, I just don’t get it.”
He shuts his eyes again and tilts his head back, his pain and fatigue so palpable I’m about to call it off, about to tell him never mind, just go inside and get some rest, when he levels those amazing green eyes right on mine and says, “Listen, Ever, here’s the thing—as crazy as it sounds, I’m a lot less interested in why you did it, than how you did it.”
I look at him, fingers gripping the steering wheel, unable to speak.
“How you tossed me like a Frisbee across your backyard—”
I swallow hard, eyes fixed straight ahead, not saying a word.
“And how one moment you were standing before me, hands empty, no pockets in sight—and the next thing I know you’re wielding a double-edged, jewel-handled knife—that—by the way—seemed to disappear just after you attacked me—am I right?”
I take a deep breath and nod. There’s no use lying now.
“And then there’s the small fact that you started this car without a key—and I think we both know it’s not that kind of car—that this particular model definitely requires one. And let’s not forget about the first day when I found you in the store, despite the fact that the door was locked, not to mention how quickly you found The Book of Shadows, which was also protected by a lock. So, forget all the rest, forget the apologies and explanations and all of that nonsense, what’s done is done, there’s no going back. All I want now is for you to explain the how. That’s all I’m really interested in.”
I glance at him, swallowing hard, unsure how to proceed. Attempting a feeble joke when I say, “Okay, but first, tell me, have those pain meds kicked in yet?” Chasing it with this horrible laugh that only succeeds in making him mad.
“Listen, Ever, if you ever decide to get honest, you know where I live. Otherwise—” He tries to open the door, tries for the big, bold, dramatic exit, but with both arms bandaged, it’s not as easy as it seems.
So I jump from my side to his, appearing beside him well before he can blink and hoping he doesn’t view it as a threat to his masculinity when I say, “Here—allow me.”
But he just stays seated, sighing and shaking his head as he says, “And then of course, there’s that—”
Our eyes meet and I suck in my breath.
“The way you move as quickly and gracefully as a jungle cat.”
I stand there, silent and still, unsure what comes next.
“So, you gonna help me or not?” he asks, raising a single spliced brow.
I nod, going through the motions of opening his door and offering my arm for support, sensing how weakened he is the moment he leans his weight onto me.
“Can you get the front door too?”
“Of course.” I nod, looking at him. “Just hand over the keys.”
His eyes graze over me. “Since when do you need a key?”
I shrug, heading down the narrow, softly lighted path that leads to his door, taking in an amazing array of vibrant pink and purple peonies when I say, “I had no idea you had such a green thumb.”
“I don’t. Well, not really. Lina planted everything. I just maintain it. We grow most of the herbs for the store right here.” He motions toward the door, obviously tired of this, tired of me, eager to just get inside and be done with all this.
So I close my eyes, seeing the door open before me until I hear that unmistakable click and wave him right in. Then I stand there like an idiot, performing this ridiculous little half wave, like I just dropped him off after a really nice picnic. Reluctant to move even after he shakes his head and motions me in, requiring a firm, verbal invite before I venture any farther.
“You gonna attack me again?” His gaze sails over me, filling me with a wave of nice, languid calm.
“Only if you get out of hand.” I shrug.
“Was that a pun?” He squints, his lips curving ever so slightly.<
br />
I laugh. “Yes, and a really bad one at that.”
He leans against the doorjamb, looking me over slowly, leisurely, taking a long deep breath before he says, “Listen, I hate to admit this, especially to you of all people, since you’ve pretty much emasculated me enough for one lifetime, but I might need a little help getting set up. The meds are kicking in and I wasn’t much good when I was sober and one-handed, so I can’t imagine how I’ll fare now. It’ll only take a minute, two at the most, and then you can get back to Damen and on with your night.”
I frown, wondering why he just said that. Switching on the lights and closing the door behind me as I follow him inside, gazing around the small cozy space, amazed to find myself inside a real, authentic Laguna Beach cottage. The kind with old brick fireplaces and large picture windows. The kind you don’t see in these parts anymore.
“Cool, isn’t it?” He nods, reading my face. “It was built in 1958. Lina picked it up cheap, a long time ago, before all the money and reality shows rolled in.”
I head for the sliding glass door that leads to a nice brick patio that leads to a steep grassy slope, a set of stairs, and a slightly moonlit ocean beyond.
“She rents it to me cheap, but my dream is to buy it someday. She says she’ll only sell if I promise not to turn it into yet another Tuscan-style duplex. As if.” He laughs.
I turn away from the window and wander into his kitchen, flicking on a light and opening a few cupboards until I find the one containing a set of drinking glasses. Looking around, searching for a bottle of water, only to find him standing so close I can make out each individual fleck in his eyes.
“Isn’t it easier to just manifest it?” he says, voice thick, low, deep.
I gaze at him, not sure what I’m bothered by more, his intimate proximity, the longing in his tone, or the way he was able to sneak up on me.