by Hilary Duff
“Oh, I get it,” Ben said, “I just think Clea and I will be safer on our own. And with all due respect, I don’t entirely trust you. And I don’t think Clea does either.”
“Respect duly noted,” Sage said wryly, “but I’m not telling you what I know about the Elixir, so you kind of need me.”
The two guys stared each other down.
“Fine,” I jumped in, “so we’ll all go to Connecticut together.”
“You say that like it’s simple,” Sage said. “You don’t think whoever has your father—or anyone looking for the Elixir—has their eye on your house? I’d be surprised if it hadn’t been searched for clues regularly since Grant first found the vials. Now that you’re involved too, the place will probably be crawling with people”
“Impossible. No one could get past security at my house.”
But even as I said it, I thought about my dad’s office, and my certainty that someone had gone through it. I caught Ben’s eye and he nodded, remembering the same thing.
“Okay,” I said to Sage. “How do we find what we need if it’s in the house, then?”
“We go there, but we’re smart about it. I need you both to listen to me. I’d say ‘trust me,’ but that might be too much to ask.”
Ben crossed his arms over his chest. I looked at Sage noncommittally.
“Right,” Sage noted. “We have to fly completely under the radar. Either of you ever done that before?”
I shook my head.
“The first thing we do is wait until night. My guess is those guys are long gone by now, but I’d rather play it safe. It will also give your ankle a chance to heal. I’d carry you,” he added, “but I’d have to get you declawed first.”
“Don’t count on it,” I replied.
Sage did an exaggerated stretch. “In the meantime, I think we should all get some sleep.” He sprawled out across the dirt floor. “Good night.”
He shut his eyes and was perfectly still. There was no chance he was asleep already, but Ben spoke his mind anyway. He pulled me aside just the slightest bit and sneered down at Sage.
“I don’t like any of this, Clea.”
“Really? Because when he started talking about the Elixir of Life, I thought the two of you were ready to become blood brothers.”
“I believe in the Elixir,” Ben said. “Enough that I want to believe Sage’s story. I just don’t know if we can. And we still can’t explain the pictures. I don’t trust him.”
“I don’t care, Ben. Dad trusted him. And Sage’s plan is my best shot at finding him alive.”
“I guess. Just …” Ben took a moment to put together his next words. “Be careful around him, okay? I feel like …”
I waited, but he wasn’t going to finish. “Feel like what?”
“Nothing. I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
I could see him struggling. It was like he was trying to tell me something monumental, but the words that came out weren’t doing it justice.
He sprawled out on the cave floor as far away from Sage as he could, and patted his chest. “Need a pillow? It’s not really in my job description, but I’m happy to offer.” He pinched a corner of his shirt between two fingers. “Cotton twill. Very soft.”
I forced a laugh. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
I curled up on the cave floor in between the two guys. Despite everything, I could already feel myself drifting away.
“Clea?” It was Ben’s voice, now right next to my ear, but I was too tired to turn and respond. I think I managed a “Hmm?” but that might have been in my head.
“Good night,” he said, then I heard him lie back down.
Sleeping on the cold hard earth is underrated—at least when you’re really tired. I was actually very comfortable, and had no doubt I’d be asleep in no time.
I could only imagine what my dreams would hold.
eight
I WAS OLIVIA, and I sat in a rowboat oared by Sage along the Tiber River.
“If you think the Society is so ridiculous, tell your father you refuse to go!” I said.
“Really? And lose my share of the family fortune? I’d be destitute. You’d have to leave me for a Medici—a fiancé who could keep you in the style to which you’re accustomed.”
“Paints, canvas, and you. That’s all I need. Maybe a little extra artistic talent.”
Sage gave me a pointed look. He loved my artwork and always gave me a hard time for doubting my own ability. I liked to remind him he was biased.
“How about food?” he asked. “You’d need food.”
“Wild fruits and vegetables.”
“Roof over your head?”
“We’ll build a hut.”
“Clothing?”
I gave Sage a knowing smile, and he almost tipped the boat.
“Sage!” I cried, holding the sides for dear life. “I can’t swim!”
“I’m sorry, but that was an absolutely valid response. Any man would tell you the same.”
I laughed. “So what do you do in the Society meetings?”
“I can’t tell you. I’m sworn to absolute secrecy.” He said it with a haughty affectation that I mimicked as I pretended to zip closed my lips and throw away the key.
“My lips are sealed,” I intoned.
“Really? Because mine are not.”
He deftly pulled his oars into the boat so he could sit across from me and bend his head to mine as he spilled, exaggerating every word and gesture to make the story larger than life.
“The Society, my love, is a circle of far-too-wealthy men and women—myself included, thank God—who have clearly gotten so bored counting their money that they have to make up fairy-tale rituals to keep life interesting. Their specific fairy tale of choice …” Sage looked over his right, then his left shoulder, pretending to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then said in a loud stage whisper, “The Elixir of Life!”
“The what?!”
“Exactly.”
“What does it do?”
“Let’s see … it’s an elixir … and it grants eternal life …”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Only a little.”
“Tell me more,” I said. “Does it work?”
“What do you think?”
“Has anyone in the Society ever died?” I asked. “That would be the proof in the pudding, wouldn’t it? Or in the Elixir.”
“It would. And the answer is yes. They drop off as easily as anyone.”
“Doesn’t that put an end to the argument?”
“To me, yes,” Sage said. “To the believers, no. They’d say using the Elixir to save lives is outside the natural order. It should only be used in the tiniest amounts to relieve pain and suffering as someone is on their way out.”
“So they have the power to grant eternal life and they never use it? Seems like a waste.”
“A waste of time! Each meeting is three hours long! Do you have any idea what I could do with three hours, Olivia?”
He had set me up for it that time, and I took the bait. “I can think of a few things you could do,” I said, giving him another wicked smile. This time he returned the grin and leaned in close to kiss me, first on my lips, then my cheek, my neck.…
“Sage,” I murmured as we slid down to the floor of the boat. “I really can’t swim.”
“Hmmm,” he breathed into my ear, “then we’ll just have to be very careful, won’t we?”
I woke to the sound of light scratching, and for a long time I was positive it was something scraping along the bottom of the boat. Little by little I remembered myself. I wasn’t in a boat, I was in a cave. I wasn’t Olivia, I was Clea.
But I was with Sage.
My body was still heavy with sleep, so I didn’t move, just opened my eyes.
The quality of light coming into the cave was subdued now. Moonlight.
Sage crouched on the ground, leaning over the cave floor a few feet in front of me. He held a small rock and concent
rated on scratching something into the dirt. I could see the tension in his arms as he worked, and the small concentrated furrow between his brows. The moonlight cast a glowing aura on his skin. He was beautiful.
Whatever else he was, Sage was by far the most magnetic man I had ever seen. I had felt it in my dreams, and it was even more true in real life. I welcomed the chance to study him without his knowledge.
He glanced up, and I quickly closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Had he seen me? The scratching stopped. He was looking at me, I knew it. I held my breath and willed my eyes not to pop open and see if he was staring.
Finally the scratching started up again. I forced myself to slowly count to ten before I opened my eyelids the tiniest bit and peeked through my lashes.
Good—he wasn’t looking at me.
I opened my eyes a little wider. What was he doing? Moving only my eyes, I glanced down at the dirt floor in front of him …
… and saw a picture of me, fast asleep.
It was incredible. I could see his tools laid out beside the picture: rocks in several sizes and shapes, a couple of twigs … the most rudimentary materials, and yet what he was etching into the floor wouldn’t look out of place on an art gallery wall. It was beautiful … far more beautiful than I thought I actually looked in my sleep. Is that how he saw me?
Sage lifted his head again, and I shut my eyes. I imagined him studying me, taking careful note of my features and filtering them through his own senses. My heartbeat quickened, and it took all my willpower to remain still.
“You can keep pretending to be asleep if you’d like, but I don’t see a career for you as an actress,” he teased.
My eyes sprang open. Sage’s head was again bent over his etching, but a grin played on his face as he worked.
“You knew?” I asked, mortified.
Sage put a finger to his lips, glancing toward Ben. “About two minutes before you woke up, I knew,” he whispered. “Your breathing changed.” He bent back over the drawing, then impishly asked, “Pleasant dreams?”
My heart stopped, and I felt myself blush bright crimson as I remembered our encounter in the bottom of the rowboat. I sent a quick prayer to whoever or whatever might be listening that I hadn’t re-enacted any of it in my sleep, then said as nonchalantly as possible, “I don’t know, I can’t remember what I dreamed about. Why?”
He swapped out the rock in his hand for one with a thinner edge and worked for another moment. “No reason … just heard my name.”
I hoped the dim moonlight shadowed the worst of my blush. “Your name,” I reiterated. “That’s …interesting. They say dreams sort out things that happen when we’re awake.”
“Hmm. Did you sort anything out?” he asked.
“Like I said, I can’t remember.”
I knew he didn’t believe me. Time to change the subject. I nodded to the etching. “Can I come look?”
He sat back on his heels and gestured to his artwork. “By all means. I’m done.”
I got up, happily noting that my ankle was now pain free. I carefully tiptoed around the two square feet of floor over which his drawing sprawled, and settled in next to him. “It’s beautiful,” I told him. “I’m flattered. I’ve never had anyone draw a picture of me before.”
Sage cocked his head and studied what he’d etched. “You think it looks like you?”
Again a hot crawl of embarrassment raced up my neck and flooded my face. I looked more closely at the etching. The image did look like me, but only if you really wanted to see the resemblance. The woman in it had the same hair, and slept in the same position I had, but on closer inspection her features were quite different. Her eyes were farther apart, her nose more pointed, her cheekbones less defined … differences that seemed insignificant when I’d assumed the picture was of me, but knowing it wasn’t …
I was an egocentric idiot. My dreams about this man may have been vivid, but they were dreams. They had nothing to with reality; not mine, and clearly not his. I stammered, groping for some kind of explanation. I had nothing.
“She does look like you, a little,” Sage admitted. His eyes lingered on the contours of the drawing’s face. I was eager to change the subject, but I felt like I had to ask.
“Who is she?”
“Someone I loved a long time ago,” he murmured.
I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to comfort him and take away his pain, but I didn’t know how. Then I thought of something.
“Let me look at your back,” I said.
“My back?”
“Your scratches. I dug in pretty deep. I should make sure it’s not infected.”
“No, no, it’s not,” he said, waving me off. “It’s fine.”
“Just let me look.”
Sage shook his head. “We’re in a cave. It’s not like you can clean it anyway.”
Why was he being so difficult? I started to get frustrated. “Are you kidding me? You’ve asked me to believe the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard. All I’m asking is for you to show me your stupid scratches!”
Sage rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, and turned, lifting up his jacket and shirt.
That was weird.
The scratches were gone.
Completely gone. There wasn’t even a mark.
But I’d dug in deep enough to make him bleed, hadn’t I?
I shook my head—I must have been swimmy from the fall and remembered it wrong. Nobody healed that completely that fast.
I gasped as I remembered someone who did—Sage himself. In my dream. When I was Anneline and he cut his hand on the rose thorns.
“What is it, Doctor?” Sage asked. “Gangrene set in?”
Should I tell him about the dreams? I opened my mouth to do it.…
“Got an itch?” Ben asked. There was a harsh edge to his voice, and both Sage and I swung around to see him glaring at us. I felt caught, even though I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Sage didn’t seem bothered.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Sage said.
Ben ignored him. He looked down at the drawing on the floor.
“Nice picture,” he said. “Doesn’t do her justice.”
Sage didn’t bother to correct him about the picture’s subject. “It’s dark. Let’s move. Ankle all better?” he asked me.
I rotated my foot. There was a twinge of pain, but not a lot. “I’m good.”
“Great.”
He led us to a small tunnel at the far end of the cave. This was a much larger passageway than the crawl space through which we had entered, and it soon fed us back out into the brush of Leme Hill. It was late at night, but the sky was bright and clear, aglow with the full moon and an unfathomable number of stars.
The minute we were out of the cave, my cell phone went crazy. “Rayna,” I said, checking the screen. “She called six times. And she texted six more. She must be freaking out that we haven’t checked in.”
Before I could call her back, Sage snatched the phone away and flung it far into the woods.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving us from being tracked. Remember what I said about going below the radar? No cell phones, no credit cards, no ATM cards.” Sage looked pointedly at Ben, but he shook his head.
“My cell’s already gone,” he said. “I lost it when we were jumped.”
“Good. That’s good. Let’s go.” We took a small path through the woods. Even though Sage believed the attackers were long gone, I kept jumping at every twig that cracked. I was grateful when we emerged onto the beach and walked back to the street. It was much quieter this Ash Wednesday night than it had been the night before, but it felt safer to be out in public.
Sage hailed a cab and climbed up front. Ben and I took the back.
“I don’t like this, Clea,” Ben said quietly. “This is textbook Bad Idea. We’re driving with a stranger, no one knows where we are, and we have no way of getting in touch with anyone. This is exactly how people become statistics.”
“Exactly
?” I asked, thinking of all the bizarre twists and turns that had led us to this place.
Ben ceded the point with a sideways shrug. “Maybe not exactly. But still …”
He let it go, and the cab eventually stopped at the edge of a remote, forested area. Sage got out and paid. “Everybody out!”
Ben looked at me, one eyebrow raised. He was leaving the choice to me. I gave his knee a quick squeeze before I opened the door and we piled out of the car.
Sage waited for the cab to drive away, then ducked onto a forest path, clearly assuming we’d follow.
The path through the thick foliage was stunning in the moonlight, and I automatically released my camera from its bag.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Sage said without turning around. “You know I’m not one for visitors.”
“I’ll refrain from selling the pictures to Travel and Leisure, then, “I said, already snapping away. “Besides, I need something to take my mind off my feet.” My shoes were still on the beach, where I’d kicked them off to dance.
“Hey, I offered to carry you,” Sage offered.
“No, thank you.”
I suppose I should have been able to move swiftly and silently without my shoes, but I only managed to stab myself on something with every other footfall, giving me a sideways, hopping gait. Every few minutes Sage would hold out his arms, offering to carry me again. I grimaced and denied him each time.
After what felt like about ten miles, even the photos weren’t distracting enough. “How much farther?” I asked.
“We’re here.”
There was nothing in front of us but more trees.
“Wow,” Ben said, and I followed his eyes upward to see that several of the tree trunks were actually stilts supporting a beautifully hidden wood-and-glass cabin, set high among the branches. I was immediately charmed.
“You live in a tree house,” I said. I aimed my camera at the facade, answering Sage’s objection before he even said it. “For me, not for Architectural Digest.”
“Thank you,” Sage said.
We followed him up the stairs and went inside. The cabin wasn’t large—the sloping, skylight-cut ceiling rose high over a single, large, wood-paneled living room and a very rustic kitchen. A large fireplace sat along one side wall, a few select framed pieces of art hung on the walls, and four bookshelves teemed neatly with both reading material and a choice few knickknacks. One long desk held Sage’s computers and paraphernalia, but it was unobtrusive, and the only nod to high-tech modernity. There was no television—all the couches and chairs instead faced the massive triangular floor-to-ceiling window that took up the entire back wall of the house, and looked out through the forest and over a beautifully secluded and pristine strip of beach. Ben and I walked to the window, openmouthed.