by Элисон Ноэль
She shrugs, brows merging as though in deep concentration. Though all it takes is a quick glance at her aura, morphing into a dark deceitful green, and a brief peek at her thoughts to see she’s only pretending. Choosing to concentrate on the color blue instead of a random number like Damen said.
I glance between them, knowing she’s baiting him, sure that his one in ten chance of hitting the right number works too much in his favor. Holding her ground as he rubs his chin and shakes his head, saying, “I don’t seem to be getting anything. Are you sure you’re thinking of a number between one and ten?”
She nods, deepening her focus on a beautiful shade of pulsating blue.
“Then we must have our wires crossed.” He shrugs. “I’m not getting a number at all.”
“Try me!” Miles abandons his phone and leans toward Damen.
Eyes barely closed, thoughts hardly focused before Damen gasps, “You’re going to Florence?”
Miles shakes his head. “Three. For your information, the number was three.” He rolls his eyes and smirks. “And by the way, everyone knows I’m going to Florence. So—nice try.”
“Everyone but me,” Damen says, jaws clenched, face gone suddenly pale.
“Well, I’m sure Ever told you. You know, telepathically.” He laughs, returning to his phone again.
I peer at Damen, wondering why he’s so upset over Miles’s trip. I mean, yeah, so he used to live there, but that was hundreds of years ago! I squeeze his hand, urging him to look at me, but he just stares at Miles with that same stricken look on his face.
“Nice try with the whole telepathy angle,” Haven says, swiping her finger across the top of her cupcake until it’s coated with strawberry frosting. “But I’m afraid you’re gonna have to try a little harder than that. All you’ve managed to prove is that you guys are even weirder than I thought. But no worries, I’ll get to the bottom of it. I’ll expose your dirty little secret before long.”
I hold back a nervous laugh, hoping she’s just messing around, then peering into her mind only to see that she’s serious.
“When are you leaving?” Damen asks, but only to appear conversational, having already uncovered the answer in Miles’s head.
“Soon, but not soon enough,” Miles says, eyes lighting up. “Let the countdown begin!”
Damen nods, gaze softening as he says, “You’ll love it. Everyone loves it. Firenze is a beautiful, charming place.”
“You’ve been?” Miles and Haven both ask at the same time.
Damen nods, gaze far away. “I lived there once—a long time ago.”
Haven glances between us, eyes narrowed again when she says, “Drina and Roman lived there too.”
Damen shrugs, expression noncommittal, as though the connection means nothing to him.
“Well, don’t you think that’s a little strange? All of you living in Italy, in the same place, then all of you ending up here—within months of each other?” She leans toward him, abandoning her cupcake in search of some answers.
But Damen’s solid, refusing to cave or do anything that might give it away. He just sips his red drink and lifts his shoulders again, as though it’s hardly worth going into.
“Is there anything I should see while I’m there?” Miles asks, more to break the tension than anything else. “Anything that shouldn’t be missed?”
Damen squints, pretending to think, even though the answer comes quickly. “All of Florence is worth seeing. But you should definitely check out the Ponte Vecchio, which is the first bridge to cross the Arno River and the only one left standing after the war. Oh, and you must visit the Galleria dell’Accademia which houses Michelangelo’s David among other important works, and perhaps the—”
“Definitely hitting David,” Miles says. “As well as the bridge, and the famous Il Duomo, and all the other items that make every guidebook top ten list, but I’m more interested in the smaller, off-the-beaten-path kind of places—you know, where all the cool Florentines go. Roman was raving about this one place, I forget the name, but it’s supposed to house some obscure Renaissance artifacts and paintings and stuff few people know about. You got anything like that? Or even clubs, shopping, that kind of thing?”
Damen looks at him, gaze so intense it sends a chill down my spine. “Nothing offhand,” he says, trying to soften the look though his voice betrays a definite edge. “Though any place that claims to house great art but isn’t in the guidebook is probably a fake. The antiquities market is loaded with forgeries. You shouldn’t waste your time on that when there are so many other, far more interesting things to see.”
Miles shrugs, bored by the conversation and already back to texting again. “Whatever,” he mumbles, thumbs tapping quickly. “No worries. Roman said he’d make me a list.”
CHAPTER 6
“I’m amazed by the progress you’ve made.” Damen smiles. “You learned all this on your own?”
I nod, gazing around the large, empty room, pleased with myself for the first time in weeks.
The moment Damen mentioned he wanted to rid the place of all the overly slick furniture he’d filled it with during Roman’s reign of terror, I was on it. Jumping at the chance to clear out the row of black leather recliners and flat-screen TVs, the red felt pool table and chrome-covered bar—all of them symbols, physical manifestations, of the bleakest phase in our relationship so far. Taking aim at each piece with such unchecked enthusiasm that—well—I’m not even sure where it went. All I know is it’s no longer here.
“Looks like you’re no longer in need of my lessons.” He shakes his head.
“Don’t be so sure.” I turn, smiling as I push his dark wavy hair off his face with my newly gloved hand, hoping we’ll get that cure from Roman soon, or at least come up with a less hokey alternative. “I have no idea where that stuff even went—not to mention how I can’t possibly fill up this space when I have no clue where you stashed all the stuff you used to have.” Reaching for his hand a second too late, and frowning as he walks over to the window.
“The furniture”—he gazes out at his manicured lawn, voice low and deep—“is right back where it started. Returned to its original state of pure vibrating energy with the potential to become anything at all. And as for the rest—” He shrugs, the strong lines of his shoulders rising ever so slightly before settling again. “Well, it hardly matters anymore, does it? I’ve no need of it now.”
I stare at his back, taking in his lean form, his casual stance. Wondering how he could be so uninterested in reclaiming the precious artifacts of his past—the Picasso of him in the severe blue suit, the Velázquez astride a rearing white stallion—not to mention all the other amazing relics dating back centuries.
“But those objects are priceless! You have to get them back. They can never be replaced!”
“Ever, relax. It’s just stuff.” His voice firm, resigned, as he turns toward me again. “None of it has any real meaning. The only thing that means anything is you.”
And even though the sentiment is undeniably sweet and heartfelt, it doesn’t affect me in the way that it should. The only things he seems to care about these days is atoning for his karma and me. And while I’m perfectly fine with those occupying the number one and two spots on his list, the problem is—the rest of the page is blank.
“But that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not just stuff.” I move toward him, voice urging, coaxing, hoping to reach him and make him listen this time. “Signed books by Shakespeare and the Brontë sisters, chandeliers from Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth—that’s hardly what you’d call stuff. It’s history for God’s sake! You can’t just shrug it off as though it’s nothing more than a box of tired old objects you donate to Goodwill.”
He looks at me, gaze softening as he trails the tip of his gloved finger from my temple to my chin. “I thought you hated my ‘dusty old room’ as you once called it.”
“People change.” I shrug. Wishing, not for the first time, that he’d change back to t
he Damen I knew. “And speaking of change, why are you so freaked by Miles’s trip to Florence?” Noting the way he stiffens at the mere mention of the word. “Is it because of the whole Drina and Roman thing? The connection you don’t want him to know about?”
He looks at me for a moment, lips parting, about to speak, then he turns away and mumbles, “I’m hardly what you’d call freaked.”
“You know what? You’re absolutely right. For a normal person, that was hardly what you’d call freaked. But for the guy who’s always the coolest, calmest one in the room—all it takes is the slight narrowing of your eyes and the most minute clenching of your jaw to know you’re upset.”
He sighs, eyes searching mine as he moves toward me again. “You saw what happened in Florence.” He squints. “Despite all its virtues, it’s also a place of unbearable memories, ones I’d rather not explore.”
I swallow hard, remembering the images I viewed in Summerland—Damen hiding in a small dark cupboard, watching as his parents were murdered by thugs intent on obtaining the elixir—then later, abused as a ward of the church until the Black Plague swept through Florence and he encouraged Drina and the rest of the orphans to drink the immortal juice, hoping only to heal and having no idea it would grant eternal life—and I can’t help but feel like the world’s worst girlfriend for bringing it up.
“I prefer to focus on the present.” He nods, gesturing around the large empty room. “And right now I really need your help furnishing this space. According to my Realtor, buyers like a nice, clean, contemporary look when shopping for homes. And though I was thinking of leaving it empty, to really emphasize the size of the rooms, I suppose we should try—”
“Your Realtor?” I gasp, practically choking on the word as my voice raises several octaves at the end. “What could you possibly need a Realtor for?”
“I’m selling the house.” He shrugs. “I thought you understood?”
I gaze around, longing for that ancient velvet settee with the lumpy cushions, knowing it would provide the perfect landing for when my body collapses and my head quietly explodes.
But I just stand there instead, determined to keep it together. Gazing at my ridiculously gorgeous boyfriend of the last four hundred years as though it’s the first time we’ve met.
“Don’t look so upset. Nothing’s changed. It’s just a house. A seriously oversized house. Besides, I’ve never needed all this space anyway. I never even use most of these rooms.”
“And what exactly are you planning to replace it with, then? A tent?”
“I just thought I’d downsize, that’s all.” His gaze is pleading, begging me to understand. “Nothing sinister, Ever. Nothing meant to hurt you.”
“And is your Realtor going to help with that too? With the downsizing?” Studying him closely, wondering what’s gotten into him, and where this will end. “I mean, Damen, if you’re seriously looking to downsize, why not just manifest something smaller? Why are you choosing this conventional route?”
I flick my gaze over him, moving from his glorious head of longish dark glossy hair to his perfect rubber flip-flop–shod feet, remembering how, not so long ago, I longed to be normal again, just like everyone else. But now that I’m getting used to my powers I don’t see the point.
“What’s this really about?” I squint, feeling more than a little betrayed. “I mean, you’re the one who got me here. You’re the one who made me this way. And now that I’m finally adjusted, you decide to jump ship? Seriously. Why are you doing this?”
But instead of answering, he closes his eyes. Projecting an image of the two of us laughing and happy, frolicking on a beautiful, pink-sand beach.
But I just shake my head and cross my arms tighter, refusing to play until my questions are answered.
He sighs and stares out the window, turning toward me when he says, “I’ve already told you, my only recourse, my only way out of this hell of my making, is to atone for my karma. And the only way to do that is to forego the manifesting, the high life, the big spending, and all the other extravagances I’ve indulged myself in for the last six hundred years, so I can live the life of an ordinary citizen. Honest, hard working, and humble, with the same day-to-day struggles as anyone else.”
I stare at him, replaying his words in my head, hardly believing what I just heard. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?” I squint. “Seriously. In your six centuries of living, have you ever even held a real job?”
But even though I’m dead serious and not at all joking, he throws his head back and laughs like I was. Eventually calming down enough to say, “You honestly think no one will hire me?” He shakes his head and laughs even harder. “Ever, please. Don’t you think I’ve been around long enough to have honed a few skills?”
I start to respond, wanting to explain that while it’s truly remarkable to watch him paint a Picasso better than Picasso with one hand while simultaneously outdoing Van Gogh with the other, I really don’t think that’ll help him land that coveted barista position at the Starbucks on the corner.
But before I can say it, he’s standing beside me, moving with such speed and grace all I can manage is, “Well, for someone who’s turned his back on his gifts, you still move awfully fast.” Aware of that warm wonderful tingle swarming my skin as he slips his arms around my waist and pulls me close to his chest, carefully avoiding skin-on-skin contact. “And what about telepathy?” I whisper. “Are you planning to ditch that too?” So overcome by his proximity I can barely eke out the words.
“I’ve no plans to ditch anything that brings me closer to you,” he says, gaze on mine, steady and still. “As for the rest—” He shrugs, glancing around the large empty space before finding me again. “Tell me, what matters more, Ever? The size of my house—or the size of my heart?”
I bite my lip and avert my gaze, the truth of his words leaving me feeling small and ashamed.
“Does it really matter if I choose the bus over a BMW, and generic over Gucci? Because the car, the wardrobe, the zip code—those are just nouns, things that are fun to have around, sure, but in the end, they have nothing to do with the real me. Nothing to do with who I really am.”
I swallow hard, focusing on anything but him. It’s not that I care about his BMW or faux French chateaux, I mean, if I want those things I’ll just manifest them myself. But even though they aren’t important, if I’m going to be honest then I have to admit they were part of the initial attraction—adding to his sleek, shiny, mysterious persona that lured me right in.
But when I finally look at him again, standing before me, stripped bare of all the usual dazzle and flash, honed down to the very essence of who he really is, I realize he’s still the same, warm, wonderful guy he’s been all along. Which just proves his point. None of that other stuff matters.
None of it has anything to do with his soul.
I smile, suddenly remembering the one place where we can be together—safe and secure and protected from harm. Reaching for his gloved hand as I grasp it in mine, saying, “Come on, I want to show you something,” and pulling him along.
CHAPTER 7
At first I was worried he’d refuse to visit a place that not only requires a certain amount of magick for entry, but that is nothing but magick once you arrive. But just after landing in that vast fragrant field, he wipes the seat of his jeans and offers his hand, gazing all around as he says, “Wow. I don’t think I was ever able to make the portal so quickly.”
“Please, you’re the one who taught me.” I smile, gazing at the meadow of pulsating flowers and shivering trees, noting how everything here is reduced to its absolute purest form of beauty and energy.
I tilt my head back, closing my eyes against the warm hazy glow and shimmering mist. Remembering the last time I was here, how I danced with a manifest Damen in this very same field, delaying the moment when I’d have to let go.
“So you’re okay with being here?” I ask, unsure just how far his ban on magick extends. “You’re n
ot mad?”
He shakes his head and takes my hand. “I never grow tired of Summerland. It’s a manifestation of beauty and promise in its purest form.”
We make our way through the pasture, buoyed by the grass just under our feet as our fingers graze the tops of golden wild-flowers that bend and sway alongside us. Knowing anything is possible in this wonderful place, anything at all, including—just maybe—us.
“I missed this.” He smiles, gazing all around. “Not that I remember the last few weeks without it, but still, it seems like such a long time since we were last here.”
“It felt strange coming without you,” I say, leading him toward a beautiful Balinese-style cabana perched beside the rainbow-colored stream. “Though I did discover a whole other side I can’t wait to show you. Only later—not now.”
I push the gauzy white fabric aside and plop onto the soft white cushions, smiling as Damen lands right beside me, the two of us lying side by side, gazing up at the elaborately carved coconut beams. Heads together, the soles of our feet just a few inches shy—the result of my elixir-fueled growth spurt.
“What is this?” He turns onto his side as I draw the curtains closed with my mind. Eager to shut out all that surrounds us so we can enjoy our own private space.
“I saw one on the cover of a travel magazine featuring some exotic resort, and I liked it so much I thought I’d manifest one. You know, so we could—hang out—and—stuff.” I avert my gaze, heart racing, face flushing, knowing I’m quite possibly the most pathetic seductress he’s met in his six hundred years.
But he just laughs, pulling me so close we just nearly touch. Separated only by the slimmest veil of shimmering energy, a pulsating screen that hovers between us—allowing us to be near without harming each other.
I close my eyes, surrendering to the wave of warmth and tingle as our bodies come together. Two hearts pumping in perfect unison, reaching and retreating, expanding and retracting, the tempo perfectly synchronized as though beating as one. Everything about it feeling so good, so natural, so right, I snuggle closer. Nestling my face in the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck, longing to taste his sweet skin and inhale his warm musky scent. A low moan escaping from deep in his throat as I close my eyes and press into his hips, my tongue tipped toward his skin, only to have him spring from my reach so fast I’m met with a mouthful of cushion.