by Alyson Noel
“I assume you have a hall pass?” his teacher asks, a stickler for the rules.
And even though I know it might very well alienate him and end up working against me, I don’t have time to get bogged down in all this red tape, the high school bureaucracy designed to keep us all safe—but that is actually, at this very moment, keeping me from handling a matter that is clearly life and death!
Or at least it might be.
I’m not sure. Though I’d like a chance to find out.
And I’m so frustrated, I just shake my head and say, “Listen, you and I both know I don’t have a hall pass, but if you’ll just do me the favor of letting me speak with Miles outside for a sec, I promise to send him right back.”
He looks at me, his mind sifting through all the alternatives, all the different ways this could play out: kicking me out, escorting me to class, escorting me to Principal Buckley’s office—before glancing at Miles and sighing when he says, “Fine. Make it quick.”
The second we head into the hall and the door closes behind us, I look at Miles and say, “Give me the salve.”
“What?” He gapes.
“The salve. The one Roman gave you. Give it to me. I need to see it,” I tell him, extending my hand and wiggling my fingers.
“Are you crazy?” he whispers, looking around even though it’s just wall-to-wall carpet, taupe colored walls, and us.
“You have no idea how serious this is,” I say, my eyes on his, not wanting to scare him, though I will if I have to. “Now come on, we don’t have all day.”
“It’s in my backpack.” He shrugs.
“Then go get it.”
“Ever, seriously. What the—?”
I just fold my arms and nod. “Go on. I’ll wait.”
Miles shakes his head and disappears inside the room. Emerging a moment later with a sour expression and a small white tube in the palm of his hand. “Here. Happy now?” He tosses it to me.
I take the tube and examine it, twirling it between my thumb and index finger. It’s a brand that I recognize, from a store that I frequent. And I don’t understand how that could be.
“You know, in case you’ve forgotten, my play is tomorrow, and I really don’t need all of this extra drama and stress right now, so if you don’t mind . . .” He extends his hand, waiting for me to return the salve so he can get back to class.
Only I’m not willing to hand it over just yet. I’m looking for some kind of needle hole or puncture mark, something to prove it’s been tampered with, that it’s not what it seems.
“I mean, today at lunch when I saw how you and Damen toned down the whole smoochy business, I was ready to high-five you, but now it’s like you’ve replaced it with something way worse. I mean, seriously, Ever. Either unscrew the cap and use it, or give it back already.”
But I don’t give it back. Instead, I close my fingers around it and try to read its energy. But it’s just some stupid zit cream. The kind that actually works.
“Are we done here?” He frowns at me.
I shrug and give the tube back. To say I’m embarrassed would be putting it mildly. But when Miles shoves it into his pocket and heads for the door, I can’t help but say, “So you noticed?” The words feel hot and sticky in my throat.
“Noticed what?” He stops, clearly annoyed.
“The, um, the absence of the whole smoochy business?”
Miles turns, performing an exaggerated eye roll before leveling his gaze right on mine. “Yeah, I noticed. I figured you guys were just taking my threat seriously.”
I look at him.
“This morning—when I said Haven and I were on strike until you guys stopped with all of your—” He shakes his head. “Whatever. Can I please get to class?”
“Sorry.” I nod. “Sorry about all the—”
But before I can finish, he’s already gone, the door closed firmly between us.
six
When I get to sixth period art, I’m relieved to see Damen’s already there. Since Mr. Robins kept us so busy in English and we barely spoke at lunch, I’m looking forward to a little alone time with him. Or at least as alone as you can be in a classroom with thirty other students.
But after slipping on my smock and gathering my supplies from the closet, my heart sinks when I see that, once again, Roman has taken my place.
“Oh, hey, Ever.” He nods, placing his brand-new blank canvas on my easel while I stand there, cradling my stuff in my arms and staring at Damen who’s so immersed in his painting he’s completely oblivious to me.
And I’m just about to tell Roman to scram when I remember Haven’s words, how she said I hate new people. And fearing she might be right, I force a smile onto my face and place my canvas on the easel on Damen’s other side, promising myself to get here much earlier tomorrow so I can reclaim my space.
“So tell me. Wot are we doin’ ’ere, mate?” Roman asks, lodging a paintbrush between his front teeth and glancing between Damen and me.
And that’s another thing. Normally, I find British accents really appealing, but with this guy, it just grates. But that’s probably because it’s totally bogus. I mean, it’s so obvious with the way he only slips it in when he wants to seem cool.
But as soon as I think it, I feel guilty again. Everyone knows that trying too hard to look cool is just another sign of insecurity. And who wouldn’t feel a little insecure on their first day at this school?
“We’re studying the isms,” I say, determined to play nice despite the nagging ping in my gut. “Last month we got to pick our own, but this month, we’re all doing photorealism since nobody picked that last time.”
Roman looks at me, starting with my growing-out bangs and working his way all the way down to my gold Haviana flip-flops—a slow leisurely cruise along my body that makes my stomach go all jumpy and twisted—and not in a good way.
“Right. So you make it look real then, like a photograph,” he says, his eyes on mine.
I meet his gaze, a gaze he insists on holding for several seconds too long. But I refuse to squirm or look away first. I’m determined to stay in the game for as long as it takes. And even though it may seem totally benign on the surface, something about it feels dark, threatening, like some kind of dare.
Or maybe not.
Because right after I think that, he says, “These American schools are amazing! Back home, in soggy old London—” he winks, “it was always theory over practice.”
And I’m instantly ashamed for all of my judgmental thoughts. Because apparently, not only is he from London, which means his accent is real, but Damen, whose psychic powers are way more refined than mine, doesn’t seem the least bit alarmed.
If anything, he seems to like him. Which is even worse for me, because it pretty much proves that Haven is right.
I really am jealous.
And possessive.
And paranoid.
And apparently I hate new people too.
I take a deep breath and try again, talking past the lump in my throat and the knot in my stomach, determined to come off as friendly, even if it means I have to fake it at first. “You can paint anything you want,” I say, using my upbeat friendly voice, which in my old life, before my whole family died in the accident and Damen saved me by making me immortal, was pretty much the only voice I ever used. “You just have to make it look real, like a photograph. Actually, we’re supposed to use an actual photograph to show our inspiration, and, of course, for grading purposes too. You know, so we can prove that we accomplished what we set out to.”
I glance at Damen, wondering if he’s heard any of this and feeling annoyed that he’s chosen his painting over communicating with me.
“And what’s he painting?” Roman asks, nodding at Damen’s canvas, a perfect depiction of the blooming fields of Summerland. Every blade of grass, every drop of water, every flower petal, so luminous, so textured, so tangible—it’s like being there. “Looks like paradise.” He nods.
“It is,”
I whisper, so awed by the painting I answered too quickly, without time to think about what I just said. Summerland is not just a sacred place—it’s our secret place. One of the many secrets I’ve promised to keep.
Roman looks at me, brows raised. “So it’s a real place then?”
But before I can answer, Damen shakes his head and says, “She wishes. But I made it up, it only exists in my head.” Then he shoots me a look, tacking on a telepathic message of—careful.
“So how do you ace the assignment, then? If you don’t have a photo to prove it exists?” Roman asks, but Damen just shrugs and gets back to painting.
But with Roman still glancing between us, his eyes all squinty and questioning, I know I can’t leave it like that. So I look at him and say, “Damen’s not so big on following the rules. He prefers to make his own.” Remembering all the times he convinced me to ditch school, bet at the track, and worse.
And when Roman nods and turns toward his canvas, and Damen sends me a telepathic bouquet of red tulips, I know that it worked—our secret is safe and all is okay. So I dip my brush in some paint and get back to work. Eager for the bell to ring so we can head back to my house, and let the real lesson begin.
After class, we pack up our stuff and head for the parking lot. And despite my bid to be nice to the new guy, I can’t help but smile when I see he’s parked clear on the other side.
“See you tomorrow,” I call, relieved to put some distance between us, because despite everyone’s instant infatuation with him, I’m just not feeling it, no matter how hard I try.
I unlock my car and toss my bag on the floor, starting to slide onto my seat as I say to Damen, “Miles has rehearsal and I’m heading straight home. Want to follow?”
I turn, surprised to find him standing before me, swaying ever so slightly from side to side with a strained look on his face. “You okay?” I lift my palm to his cheek, feeling for heat or clamminess, some sign of unease, even though I really don’t expect to find any. And when Damen shakes his head and looks at me, for a split second all the color drains right away. But then it’s over as soon as I blink.
“Sorry, I just—my head feels a bit strange,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.
“But I thought you never get sick, that we don’t get sick?” I say, unable to hide my alarm as I reach for my backpack. Thinking a sip of immortal juice might make him feel better since he requires so much more than I. And even though we’re not exactly sure why, Damen figures that six centuries of chugging it have resulted in some kind of dependency, requiring him to consume more and more with each passing year. Which probably means I’ll eventually require more too. And even though it seems like a long way off, I just hope he shows me how to make it by then so I won’t have to bug him for refills all the time.
But before I can get to it, he retrieves his own bottle and takes a long hearty swig, pulling me to him and pressing his lips to my cheek when he says, “I’m okay. Really. Race you home?”
seven
Damen drives fast. Insanely fast. I mean, just because we both have advanced psychic radar, which comes in handy for zoning in on cops, opposing traffic, pedestrians, stray animals, and anything else that might get in our way, that doesn’t mean we should abuse it.
But Damen thinks otherwise. Which is why he’s already waiting on my front porch before I can even pull in and park.
“I thought you’d never make it.” He laughs, following me up to my room, where he plops onto my bed, pulls me down with him, and leans in for a nice lingering kiss—a kiss that, if it were up to me, would never end. I’d happily spend the rest of eternity wrapped in his arms. Just knowing we have an infinite number of days to spend side by side provides more happiness than I can bear.
Though I didn’t always feel that way. I was pretty upset when I first learned the truth. So upset that I spent some time away from him until I could get it all straight in my head. I mean, it’s not everyday you hear someone say: Oh, by the way, I’m an immortal, and I made you one too.
And while I was pretty reluctant to believe him at first, after he walked me through it, reminding me of how I died in the accident, how I looked right into his eyes the moment he returned me to life,and how I recognized those eyes the first time I met him at school—well, there was no denying it was true.
Though that doesn’t mean I was willing to accept it. It was bad enough dealing with the barrage of psychic abilities brought on by my NDE (near death experience—they insist on calling it near, even though I really did die), and how I started hearing other people’s thoughts, getting their life stories by touch, talking to the dead, and more. Not to mention that being immortal, as cool as it may sound, also means I’ll never get to cross the bridge. I’ll never make it to the other side to see my family again. And when you think about it, that’s a pretty big trade.
I pull away, my lips reluctantly leaving his as I gaze into his eyes—the same eyes I’ve gazed into for four hundred years. Though no matter how hard I try, I can’t summon our past. Only Damen, who’s stayed the same for the last six hundred years—neither dying nor reincarnating—holds the key.
“What’re you thinking?” he asks, his fingers smoothing the curve of my cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their path.
I take a deep breath, knowing how committed he is to staying in the present, but determined to know more of my history—our history. “I was thinking about when we first met,” I say, watching his brow lift as he shakes his head.
“Were you? And what exactly do you remember from that time?”
“Nothing.” I shrug. “Absolutely nothing. Which is why I’m hoping you’ll fill me in. You don’t have to tell me everything—I mean, I know how you hate looking back. I’m just really curious about how it all started—how we first met.”
He pulls away and rolls onto his back, his body still, his lips unmoving, and I fear this is the only response that I’ll get.
“Please?” I murmur, inching toward him and curling my body around his. “It’s not fair that you get all the details while I’m left out here in the dark. Just give me something to go on. Where did we live? What did I look like? How did we meet? Was it love at first sight?”
He shifts ever so slightly, then rolls onto his side, burying his hand in my hair as he says, “It was France, 1608.”
I gulp, taking a quick intake of breath as I wait to hear more.
“Paris, actually.”
Paris! I immediately picture elaborate gowns, stolen kisses on the Pont Neuf, gossiping with Marie Antoinette . . .
“I attended a dinner at a friend’s house—” He pauses, his gaze moving past mine, centuries away now. “And you were working as a servant.”
A servant?
“One of their servants. They were very wealthy. They had many.”
I lie there, stunned. This is not what I expected.
“You weren’t like the others,” he says, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “You were beautiful. Extraordinarily beautiful. You looked a lot like you do now.” He smiles, gathering a chunk of my hair and rubbing it between his two fingers. “And also like now, you were orphaned, having lost your family in a fire. And so, left penniless, with no one to support you, you were employed by my friends.”
I swallow hard, not sure how I feel about this. I mean, what’s the point of reincarnating if you’re forced to relive the same kind of painful moments all over again?
“And yes, just so you know, it was love at first sight. I fell completely and irreversibly in love with you. The very moment I saw you I knew that my life would never be the same.”
He looks at me, his fingers on my temples, his gaze luring me in, presenting the moment in all its intensity, unfolding the scene as though I’m right there.
My blond hair is hidden under a cap, my blue eyes are shy and afraid to make contact, and with clothes so drab and fingers so calloused, my beauty is wasted, easily missed.
But Damen sees it. The moment
I enter the room his eyes find mine. Looking past my scruffy exterior to the soul that refuses to hide. And he’s so dark, so striking, so refined, so handsome—I turn away. Knowing the buttons on his coat alone are worth more than I’ll make in a year. Knowing without looking twice that he’s out of my league . . .
“Still, I had to move cautiously because—”
“Because you were already married to Drina!” I whisper, watching the scene in my head and overhearing one of the dinner guests inquire about her, our eyes meeting briefly as Damen says:
“Drina is in Hungary. We have gone our separate ways.” Knowing he’ll be the source of scandal, but wanting me to hear it more than caring what they’ll think . . .
“She and I were already living apart, so it wasn’t an issue. The reason I had to tread cautiously is because fraternizing outside of one’s class was severely frowned upon back then. And because you were so innocent, so vulnerable in so many ways, I didn’t want to cause you any trouble, especially if you didn’t feel the same way.”
“But I did feel the same way!” I say, watching as we move past that night, and how every time I went into town, I’d manage to run into him.
“I’m afraid I resorted to following you.” He looks at me, his face chagrined. “Until we finally bumped into each other so often, you began to trust me. And then . . .”
And then we met in secret—stolen kisses just outside the servant’s entrance, a passionate embrace in a dark alleyway or inside his carriage . . .
“Only now I know that it wasn’t nearly as secret as I’d thought . . .” He sighs. “Drina was never in Hungary, she was there all along. Watching, planning, determined to win me back—no matter the cost.” He takes a deep breath, the regret of four centuries displayed on his face. “I wanted to take care of you, Ever. I wanted to give you anything and everything your heart desired. I wanted to treat you like the princess you were born to be. And when I finally convinced you to come away with me, I’d never felt so happy and alive. We were to meet at midnight—”
