by Alyson Noel
“I—I thought I’d just get it the old-fashioned way—if that’s okay? Guaranteed to taste the same,” I mumble, the words clumsy on my lips, hoping he’s too hopped up on pain medication to see just how much his nearness is affecting me.
He continues to stand there, gaze steady, giving nothing away. Voice groggy and deep when he says, “Ever—what are you?”
I freeze, fingers gripping the glass so hard I’m afraid it might break in my hand. Focusing on the tiled floor, the small table to the right, the den just beyond, anywhere but at him. The silence hanging so thick between us, I only want to break it when I say, “I—I can’t tell you.”
“So, it’s not just the book then, it’s—something else.”
My eyes meet his, immediately recognizing my blunder, how I basically just admitted I’m not at all normal when I could’ve just blamed it on magick instead. But the truth is, he wouldn’t have bought it. He knew something was up from the first day we met, long before he ever lent me that book.
“Why didn’t you tell me The Book of Shadows was written in code?” I say, eyes narrowed, putting him back on the defensive again.
“I did.” He breaks the gaze and moves away, annoyance stamped on his face.
“No, you told me it was written in the Theban code and that it had to be intuited to be understood. But what you failed to mention is that it’s actually protected by a code—a code that has to be cracked in order to see what’s truly inside. So what gives? Why didn’t you tell me about that? It’s a pretty major detail to leave out, don’t you think?”
He leans against the tiled counter, shaking his head when he says, “Excuse me, but am I under suspicion again? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that when you sliced me open, you pretty much determined I was one of the good guys.”
I fold my arms and squint. “No, I determined you’re not a rogue. I never said you were good.” He looks at me, striving for patience, but I’m far from done yet. “You also failed to mention how you got the book—how it ended up in your hands.”
He shrugs, gaze fixed, voice steady, measured, when he says, “I told you—I got it from a friend, a few years back.”
“And does this friend have a name—like maybe Roman, perhaps?”
He laughs, though it comes out more like a grunt. His annoyance ringing loud and clear when he says, “Oh, I see, you’re still convinced I’m part of his tribe. Well, excuse me for saying so, Ever, but I thought we were through with all that?”
I fold my arms across my chest, allowing the glass to dangle from my fingers. “Listen, Jude, I’d like to trust you, really I would. But the other night when—” I pause, realizing I can’t really continue that thread. “Well, anyway, Roman said something about the book once belonging to him, and I really need to know if that’s where you got it—if he somehow sold it to you?”
He reaches toward me, the few fingers that still actually work snatching the glass right out of my grasp. “My only connection to Roman is through you. I don’t know what else to tell you, Ever.”
I squint, scrutinizing his aura, his energy, his body language, adding it all up as he heads for the sink, and coming to the conclusion that he really is telling the truth, not hiding a thing.
“Tap?” I ask, seeing him glance over his shoulder at me. “It’s been a while since I saw someone do that. Not since I left Oregon.”
“I’m a simple guy, what can I say?” He takes a hearty swig, draining it completely before turning to fill it again.
“So seriously, you didn’t know about the book?” I follow behind, watching as he heads for an old brown couch where he promptly plops himself down.
“To be honest, pretty much everything you’ve said since I ran into you has been a mystery. None of it makes any sense. Normally, I’d just give you the benefit of the doubt and blame the meds, but I seem to remember you talking crazy long before it resulted in that.”
I frown, dropping onto the chair just opposite him and propping my feet up on an elaborately carved antique door he uses as a coffee table. “I’m—I wish I could explain it—I feel like I owe you that much. But I can’t. It’s—it’s too complicated. Stuff that involves—”
“Roman and Damen?”
I squint, wondering why he just said that.
“Just a guess.” He shrugs. “But from the look on your face, a successful one.”
I press my lips together and gaze around the room, taking in tall stacks of books, an old stereo, some interesting art, but no TV. Neither confirming nor denying his statement when I say, “I have these powers. Stuff that goes way beyond the psychic stuff you already know about. I can make things move—”
“Telekinesis.” He nods, eyes closed now.
“I can make things appear.”
“Manifestation—but in your case—instant.” He opens one eye to peer at me. “Which makes me wonder—why the book? You’ve got the world at your feet. You’re beautiful, smart, blessed with all kinds of powers at your disposal, and I’m betting your boyfriend’s hiding some gifts of his own . . .”
I look at him. That’s the third time he’s mentioned him, and it bugs me just as much as it did the first time around. “What’s your deal with Damen?” I ask, wondering if he’s on to us, if he somehow senses something about the long and convoluted past the three of us share.
He shifts, swinging his legs up onto the cushions and propping his head against a pillow. “What can I say? I don’t like him. There’s just—something about him. Can’t really put my finger on it.” Turning his head to look at me when he adds, “That wasn’t a pun, and you did ask. And if there’s anything else you wanna know, now’s your chance. These meds are kicking in big time, starting an unbelievable buzz, so you might want to catch me before I fade out, while I’m still able and willing to talk fast and loose.”
I shake my head, having already gotten all the answers I needed when I nicked him on the sidewalk a few hours before. But now, maybe it’s time I share a few truths of my own—or at least lead him toward the truth and see if he drinks.
“You know, there’s a reason why you and Damen don’t care for each other—” I venture, biting down on my lip, not yet decided just how far I’ll take it.
“Ah—so it’s mutual.” His gaze meets mine, holding it for so long, I’m the first to break away. Studying the threadworn rug at my feet, the scarred wood table before me, the large citrine geode propped up in the corner, wondering why on earth I started this, and just about to speak when he says, “No worries.” He struggles to kick the blanket over his feet but doesn’t quite make it. “No need to explain, no need to—worry. It’s just your everyday, garden-variety guy thing. You know, the kind of primal competition that takes place whenever there’s one absolutely amazing girl and two guys who desperately want her. And since only one of us can win—excuse me—since only one of us has won—I’ll just wander back to my cave, bang my club against the wall a few times, and lick my wounds where no one can see.” He closes his eyes, voice lowered when he adds, “Trust me, Ever, I know when to cry uncle. I know when to bow out, so don’t you worry. There’s a reason I’m named after the patron saint of lost causes—I’ve done it many times before, and . . . I . . . ”
His words fade as his chin sinks to his chest, so I get up from my chair and move toward him, grabbing the plush, tangled throw at his feet and carefully arranging it so it covers him completely. “Get some sleep,” I whisper. “I’ll fill your prescription tomorrow, so no worries there. You just stay here and rest.” Knowing he’s drifting off, moving on to some other place, but wanting to assure him nonetheless.
Tucking the blanket under his feet when he says, “Hey, Ever—you never answered—about the book. Why’d you want that book when you already have everything you could ever possibly want?”
I freeze, gazing upon the guy I’ve known for so many centuries, so many lives, who’s managed to show up yet again. Knowing there must be a reason, that from everything I’ve
seen and experienced so far, the universe isn’t nearly as random as it seems. But the thing is, I don’t know the reason. In fact, I don’t know much of anything anymore. All I know is they couldn’t be more different. Jude’s calming presence is the exact opposite of Damen’s sultry mix of tingle and heat. Like the yang to his yin. Opposites to the purest degree.
I finish tucking him in, waiting until he’s drifted off again before I head for the door, saying, “Because I don’t have everything I want. Not even close.”
seven
“I knew there was something up with you guys all along. Especially you.” She points at Damen. “Sorry, but no one’s that perfect.”
Damen smiles, opening the door wide and motioning us inside, his deep dark gaze holding mine like a lover’s embrace, showering me with a deluge of telepathic red tulips meant to provide the courage and strength I’m obviously gonna need.
“And just so you know, I saw that,” Haven says, heavily ringed fingers clutching her leather-clad hips, eyes darting between us, before shaking her head and charging into the foyer.
Damen looks at me, brows raised, but I just shrug. Haven’s gifts are only just starting to surface. Mind reading is just the beginning.
“Wow, I can’t believe you live like this!” She twirls around and around as she takes it all in—the elaborate chandelier hanging from the tall, domed ceiling, the plush Persian rug at her feet—two priceless antiques dating back several centuries that were almost lost for good when Damen went through what I now refer to as his “monk phase”—back when he was sure his extravagant, vain, narcissistic past was directly to blame for all the troubles we face. Determined to rid himself of all worldly goods, until the twins came to stay and the for SALE sign came down, wanting to provide them with all the extra comforts and space that he could. “You could throw the most awesome parties just right here in the entry!” She laughs. “Is this part of being immortal? Living in fancy digs like this? Because if so, sign me up!”
“Damen’s been at it awhile—” I say, unsure how to explain his multimillion-dollar manse, since I’ve yet to get to the part about the ancient art of instant manifestation, along with picking all the right ponies at the track—and not sure that I will.
“Well, how long has Roman been at it, cuz his place is nice and all, but it’s nothing like this.”
Damen and I look at each other, unable to communicate with our usual telepathy now that we know she can hear, but still mutually deciding to ignore the question. Determined to keep the details as vague as we can, for as long as we can. Delaying the inevitable day when she discovers the real truth behind all of this, not to mention what really happened to her good friend Drina.
We follow her through the kitchen and into the den, only to find the twins plopped on either end of the couch. Each of them reading their very own copy of the same book, with Rayne munching on a bar of chocolate, while Romy dips into a big, buttery bowl of popcorn.
“So, are you guys immortal too?” she asks, causing Romy and Rayne to look up, Rayne with her usual scowl, while Romy just shakes her head and returns to where she left off.
“No, they’re—um—” I glance at Damen, eyes pleading for help. Having no idea how to explain the fact that while they’re not technically immortal, they have been hanging out in an alternate dimension for the last three hundred years, and now, thanks to me, can’t seem to return.
“They’re family.” Damen nods, shooting me a look that tells me to just play along and follow his lead.
Haven stands in the middle of the room, brow raised, face squinched, obviously not buying a word of it. “So, you’re trying to tell me you’ve kept in touch with your family for—” She narrows her gaze, looking him over, trying to determine just how old he is, then shrugging in defeat when she says, “Anyway, that must make for some very interesting reunions, to say the least.”
I glance at Damen, seeing he’s fully prepared to let that one go, but still hoping to save it, I jump in and say, “What he means is, they’re like family. They’re—”
“Oh, please!” Rayne tosses her book onto the table and glares, at me, at Haven, but not Damen, of course. “We’re not family, and we’re not immortal, okay? We’re witches. Refugees from the Salem Witch Trials. And don’t ask any more questions because we won’t answer them. That’s more than you need to know anyway.”
Haven looks at us, eyes wider than I ever would’ve thought possible, gawping at all four of us freaks as she says, “Jeez. I mean, can this get any weirder?”
I shrug, exchanging a look with Rayne, making it clear she should’ve kept that one under wraps, and watching as Haven settles onto an overstuffed chair, eagerly glancing between us as though anticipating some kind of confidential password reveal, a grand indoctrination, a secret initiation of some sort, and not even trying to hide her disappointment when Damen heads into the kitchen, only to emerge a moment later with a small box full of elixir he promptly hands to her.
She peers into the box, tapping the lid of each bottle with the tip of her black-painted nail, gazing at us in confusion when she says, “That’s it? Seven? Only a one-week supply? I mean, you’re not serious, are you? How am I supposed to survive on just this? You trying to kill me before I even have a chance to get started?”
“Duh, you’re immortal—they can’t kill you.” Rayne shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“Duh, yes they can. That’s why Ever makes me wear this.” Haven snakes her amulet out from under her black lace top and waves it in front of Rayne’s face.
But Rayne just groans, crossing her skinny, pale arms across her sunken chest when she says, “Please, I know all about that. Take it off, get a punch to the wrong chakra and you’re toast. Leave it on and you live happily ever after and after and after. It’s not rocket science, you know.”
“Jeez, is she always this grouchy?” Haven asks, laughing and shaking her head.
And just as I start to say yes, glad to have an ally for a change if nothing else, I watch as she gets up from her chair and plops down beside Rayne, mussing her hair and tickling her feet in a way that makes them instant best friends. And just like that, I’m back to being the outcast again.
“You don’t need to drink it every day,” Damen says, determined to get this back on track. “In fact, you could last the next hundred and fifty years without so much as a single sip, perhaps even longer, who knows?”
“Well, if that’s the case, then why do you sip it like your life depends on it?” Haven asks, removing Rayne’s feet from her lap as she takes us both in.
Damen shrugs. “I guess because it kind of does at this point. I’ve been around awhile, you know. A long while.”
“How long?” Haven leans forward, pushing her platinum-streaked bangs off her face and gazing at him with two heavily made-up eyes.
“Long. Anyway—the point is—”
“Wait—you’re joking, right? I mean, you’re seriously not gonna tell me your real age? What are you—like one of those thirty-somethings who pile up the twenty-ninth birthdays well into their eighties? I mean, sorry, Damen, but how vain are you?” She laughs and shakes her head. “Trust me, when I’m old, I plan to shout it from the rooftops. I can’t wait ’til I’m a porcelain-skinned one hundred and eighty-two.”
“It’s not vanity, it’s—practicality,” Damen snaps, and when I look at him, I realize he’s flustered, but probably only because it is a little bit vanity, he just doesn’t want to admit it. As much as he’s tried to rid himself of all the fancy clothes, hair-grooming products, and handmade Italian leather boots, a hint of vanity remains. “Besides, you can’t flaunt it, you can’t tell anyone. I thought you and Ever talked about that?”
“We did,” Haven and I both say, our voices blending as one.
“So, there should be no question. You just stick to your normal cupcake-eating routine, keeping your behavior as normal as possible, careful not to draw any—”
“Unnecessary attention to myself.” Haven sha
kes her head and rolls her eyes in the most exaggerated way. “Trust me, Ever gave me the whole lowdown, warned me of the dark side, the monster under the bed, the one in the closet, not to mention the boogeyman who lives under the stairs, and I hate to break it to you, but I’m not really interested in any of that. I’ve been ordinary my whole entire life. Ignored, overlooked, practically blending into the walls and treated like I was invisible no matter how crazy I tried to act and dress, and I’m telling you, that kind of anonymity is overrated. I’m totally and completely over it. So if now’s my chance to really kick it—to really stand out and be seen for a change—well, I’m not about to hold back. I plan to embrace it with all that I’ve got! So, with that in mind, I’m thinking you can do a little better than this.” She taps the side of the box. “Come on, humor me, hand over the juice so I can give everyone the shock of a lifetime when we start senior year.”
Damen looks at me, alarmed, speechless—shooting me a look that says: She’s your creation—your Frankenstein—do something!
So I clear my throat and turn to her, legs crossed, hands clasped, rearranging my face into a pleasant expression despite the fact that I’m every bit as freaked as he is. “Haven—please,” I say, careful to keep my voice steady and low. “We talked about this—we—”
But not getting very far before she cuts in. “You drink it all the time—so why can’t I?” She drums her fingers against the box and narrows her gaze.
I pause, unsure how to explain that the juice enhances my powers, powers I prefer she not have, fumbling around for just the right words when I say, “While it may appear that way, the thing is—I don’t really need it—not like Damen does anyway. I just sort of drink it because—well—because I’m used to it. And even though it doesn’t taste all that great—I kind of like it. But trust me, it’s really not necessary to drink it every day—not even every week—or every year, for that matter. Like Damen said, you can go a hundred years, maybe two hundred, without a single sip.” I nod, hoping she’ll buy it, not wanting her to know about the surge in power and speed and magical abilities that regular consumption can bring. That would only make her want it more.