Blue Moon

by Alyson Noel

  Even when my right heel breaks off my sandal, I just toss them aside and keep going. I don’t care about my shoes. I can make a hundred more pairs.

  But I can’t make another Damen.

  And as the lot slowly empties, with still no sign of him, I crumble to the curb, feeling sweaty, exhausted, deflated. Watching the cuts and blisters on my feet simultaneously mend, and wishing I could close my eyes and access his mind—get a read on his thoughts, if not his whereabouts.

  But the truth is, I’ve never been able to get inside his head. It’s one of the things I liked best about him. His being so psychically off limits made me feel normal. And wouldn’t you know, the one thing that once seemed so appealing is now the very thing that’s working against me.

  “Need a lift?”

  I look up to find Roman standing over me, jangling a set of keys in one hand, my broken sandals in the other.

  I shake my head and look away, knowing I’m in no position to refuse a ride, though I’d rather crawl through a trail of hot coals and broken glass than climb inside a two-seater with him.

  “C’mon,” he says. “I promise not to bite.”

  I gather my things, tossing my cell into my bag and smoothing my dress as I stand up and say, “I’m good.”

  “Really?” He smiles, moving so close our toes nearly touch. “ ’Cause, to be honest, you’re not looking so good.”

  I turn, making my way toward the exit, not bothering to stop when he says, “What I meant was the situation isn’t looking so good. I mean, look at you, Ever. You’re disheveled, shoeless, and though I can’t be too sure, it appears that your boyfriend has ditched you.”

  I take a deep breath and keep going, hoping he’ll soon tire of this game, tire of me, and move on.

  “And yet, even in that frenetic, slightly desperate state, I have to admit, you’re still smokin’—if you don’t mind my saying.”

  I stop, suddenly turning to face him despite my vow to keep moving. Cringing as his eyes slowly rake over my body, lingering on my legs, my waist, and my chest—with an unmistakable gleam.

  “Makes one wonder what Damen’s thinking, ’cause if you ask me—”

  “No one asked you,” I say, feeling my hands starting to shake and reminding myself that I’m completely in charge here, that I’ve no reason to feel threatened. That even though I may look like your average defenseless girl on the outside, I’m anything but. I’m stronger than I used to be, so strong that if I really wanted, I could take him down with one swing. I could pick him up off his feet and toss him clear across the parking lot to the other side of the street. And don’t think I’m not tempted to prove it.

  He smiles, that lazy grin that works on just about everyone but me, his steely blue eyes peering straight into mine with a gaze so knowing, so personal, so amused—my first instinct is to flee.

  But I don’t.

  Because everything about him feels like a challenge, and no way am I letting him win.

  “I don’t need a ride,” I finally say. Turning to pick up the pace and feeling his chill as he trails right behind me. His icy cold breath on the back of my neck when he says, “Ever, please, slow down a minute, would ya? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  But I don’t slow down. I keep going. Determined to put as much distance between us as I possibly can.

  “Come on now.” He laughs. “I’m only trying to help. Your friends have all left, Damen’s buggered off, the cleaning crew went home, which makes me your only hope left.”

  “I’ve plenty of options,” I mumble, wishing he’d just go away so I can try to manifest a car, some shoes, and be on my way.

  “None that I can see.”

  I shake my head and keep walking. This conversation is over.

  “So what you’re saying is, you’d rather foot it all the way home than get in a car with me?”

  I reach the end of the street and punch the signal again and again, willing the light to turn green so I can get to the other side and be rid of him.

  “I don’t know how we got off to such a bad start, but it’s pretty clear that you hate me and I’ve no idea why.” His voice is smooth, inviting, as though he really wants to start over, let bygones be bygones, make amends, and all that.

  But I don’t want to start over. Nor do I want to make amends. I just want him to turn around, go somewhere else, and leave me alone so I can find Damen.

  And yet, I can’t let it go, can’t let him get the last word. So I glance over my shoulder and say, “Don’t flatter yourself, Roman. Hating requires caring. In which case, I couldn’t possibly hate you.”

  Then I storm across the street even though the light has yet to turn green. Dancing around a couple of speeders intent on beating the yellow, and feeling the insistent chill of his gaze.

  “What about your shoes?” he shouts. “Shame to just leave ‘em like this. I’m sure the heel can be fixed.”

  But I just keep moving. Seeing him bow deeply behind me, his arm sweeping upward in an exaggerated arc, my sandals dangling from the tips of his fingers. His all-encompassing laugh chasing behind me, following me across the boulevard and onto the street.

  thirteen

  The moment I cross the street I duck behind a building, peer around the corner, and wait until Roman’s cherry red Aston Martin Roadster pulls onto the road and drives away. Then I wait a few minutes more until I’m fully convinced he really is gone and won’t be returning anytime soon.

  I need to find Damen. I need to find out what happened to him, why he disappeared without saying a word. I mean, he’s (we’ve) been looking forward to this night for four hundred years, so the fact that he’s not here beside me proves something’s gone terribly wrong.

  But first I need a car. You can’t get anywhere in Orange County without one. So I close my eyes and picture the first thing that comes to mind—a sky blue VW Bug—just like the one Shayla Sparks, the coolest senior to ever walk the halls of Hillcrest High, used to drive. Remembering its cartoonish round shape and the black cloth top that seemed so glamorous and yet took such a beating in the relentless Oregon rain. Picturing it so clearly it’s as though it’s right there before me—all shiny and curvy and adorably cute. Feeling my fingers bend around the door handle, and the soft stroke of leather as I slide onto the seat, and when I place a single red tulip in the flower holder before me, I open my eyes and see that my ride is complete.

  Only I don’t know how to start the engine.

  I forgot to manifest a key.

  But since that’s never stopped Damen, I just close my eyes again and will the engine to life, remembering the exact sound Shayla’s car used to make as my ex–best friend Rachel and I stood on the curb after school, watching in envy as her super cool friends piled into the front and back seats.

  And the moment the engine turns, I head toward Coast Highway. Figuring I’ll start at the Montage, the place we were supposed to end up, and take it from there.

  The traffic is thick this time of night, but it doesn’t slow me. I just focus on all of the surrounding cars, seeing what everyone’s next move is going to be, then adjusting my journey around it. Moving quickly and smoothly into each open space, until I arrive at the entrance, jump out of the Bug, and sprint for the lobby.

  Stopping only when the valet calls out from behind me, “Hey, wait up! What about the key?”

  I pause, my breath coming in short shallow gasps, not realizing until I catch him staring at my feet that I’m not only keyless but shoeless as well. Yet knowing I can’t afford to waste any more time than I already have, and reluctant to go through the whole manifesting process in front of him, I run through the door, yelling, “Just leave it running, I’ll only be a sec!”

  I make a beeline for the front desk, bypassing a long line of disgruntled people, all of them weighed down with golf bags and monogrammed luggage, all of them complaining about checking in late due to a four-hour delay. And when I cut in front of the middle-aged couple that was supposed to be next, the
griping and grumbling hits the next level.

  “Has Damen Auguste checked in?” I ask, ignoring the protests behind me, as my fingers curl around the edge of the counter and I fight to steady my nerves.

  “I’m sorry, who?” The clerk’s gaze darts to the couple behind me, shooting them a look meant to say—don’t worry, I’ll be done with this psycho chick soon!

  “Damen. Auguste.” I enunciate slowly, succinctly, with far more patience than I have.

  She squints at me, her thin lips barely moving as she says, “I’m sorry, that information is confidential.” Flicking her long dark ponytail over her shoulder in a move so final, so dismissive, it’s like a period at the end of a sentence.

  I narrow my eyes, focusing on her deep orange aura and knowing it means strict organization and self-control are the virtues she prizes the most—something I showed a glaring lack of when I jumped the turnstile a moment ago. And knowing I need to get on her good side if I’ve any hope of obtaining the info I need, I resist the urge to act all huffy and indignant, and calmly explain how I’m the other guest who’s sharing the room.

  She looks at me, looks at the couple behind me, then says, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait your turn. Just. Like. Everyone. Else.”

  And I know I have less than ten seconds between now and when she calls for security.

  “I know.” I lower my voice and lean toward her. “And I really am sorry. It’s just that—”

  She looks at me, her fingers inching toward the phone as I take in her long straight nose, thin unadorned lips, and the hint of puffiness just under her eyes, and just like that, I see my way in.

  She’s been dumped. She’s been dumped so recently she still cries herself to sleep every night. Reliving the horrible event every day, all day—the scene following her wherever she goes, from her waking state to her dreams.

  “It’s just that, well—” I pause, trying to make it seem as though it hurts too much to say the actual words, when the truth is I’m not sure which words I’ll actually use. Then I shake my head and start over, knowing it’s always better to stick with some semblance of the truth when you need the lie to seem real. “He didn’t show up when he was supposed to, and because of that . . . well . . . I’m not sure if he’s even still coming.” I swallow hard, cringing when I realize the tears in my eyes are for real.

  But when I look at her again, seeing her face soften—the grim judging mouth, the squinty narrowed eyes, the superior tilt of her chin—all of it suddenly transformed by compassion, solidarity, and unity—I know that it worked. We’re like sisters now, loyal members of an all-female tribe, recently jilted by men.

  I watch as she taps some commands on her keyboard, tuning in to her energy so I can see what she sees—the letters on the screen flashing before me, showing that our room, suite 309, is still empty.

  “I’m sure he’s just running late,” she says, though she doesn’t believe it. In her mind, all men are scum, of this she’s convinced. “But if you can show me some ID and prove that you’re you, I can—”

  But before she can finish, I’m already gone, turning away from the desk and running outside. I don’t need a key. I could never check into that sad empty room, waiting for a boyfriend who clearly won’t show. I need to keep moving, keep searching. I need to hit the only other two places where he might be. And as I jump in my car and head for the beach—I pray that I’ll find him.

  fourteen

  I park near the Shake Shack and head toward the ocean, feeling my way down the dark winding path, determined to locate Damen’s secret cave even though I’ve only been there one other time, which happens to be the one other time we came really close to doing the deed. And we would have too—if it weren’t for me. I guess I have a long history of slamming the brakes at the most crucial moment. Either that, or I end up dying. So obviously, I was hoping tonight would be different.

  But the moment my feet hit the sand and I make my way down to his hideout, I’m sorry to see that it’s pretty much the same as we left it: blankets and towels folded and stacked in the corner, surfboards lined up against the walls, a wet suit draped over a chair—but no Damen.

  And with only one place left on my list, I cross my fingers and run for my car. Amazed by the way my limbs move with such speed and grace, the way my feet merely glance over the sand, covering the distance so quickly, I’ve barely started and I’m already back in my car pulling out of my space. Wondering just how long I’ve been able to do this, and what other immortal gifts I might have.

  When I arrive at the gate, Sheila, the gate guard who’s used to seeing me by now and knows I’m on Damen’s permanent list of welcome guests, just smiles and waves me right in. And as I head up the hill toward his house and pull into his drive, the first thing I notice is that the lights are all off.

  And I mean all of them. Including the one over the door that he always leaves on.

  I sit in the Bug, its engine idling as I gaze up at those cold dark windows. Part of me wanting to break down the door, tear up the stairs, and burst into his “special” room—the one where he stores his most precious mementos—the portraits of himself as painted by Picasso, Van Gogh, and Velázquez, along with the piles of rare, first-editions tomes—the priceless relics of his long and storied past, all hoarded into one overstuffed, gilt-laden room. While the other part prefers to stay put, knowing I don’t need to enter to prove he’s not there. The cold, foreboding exterior, with its stone-covered walls, tiled roof, and vacant windows, is completely devoid of his warm loving presence.

  I close my eyes, struggling to recall the last words he said—something about getting the car so that we could make an even quicker getaway. Sure that he really meant we—that we were supposed to make the quick getaway so that we could finally be together—our four-hundred-year quest culminating on this one perfect night.

  I mean, he couldn’t have been looking for a quicker getaway from me—

  Could he?

  I take a deep breath and climb out of my car, knowing the only way to get answers is to keep moving. The soles of my cold wet feet slipping along the dew-covered walkway as I fumble for the key, remembering too late that I left it at home, never dreaming I’d need it tonight of all nights.

  I stand before the front door, memorizing its curving arch, mahogany finish, and bold, detailed carvings, before I close my eyes and picture another just like it. Seeing my imaginary door unlock and swing open, never having tried this before, but knowing it’s possible after seeing Damen unlock a gate at our school—a gate that’d been decidedly locked just a few moments before.

  But when I open my eyes again, all I’ve managed to manifest is another giant wood door. And having no idea how to dispose of it (since up until now I’ve only manifested things I wanted to keep), I lean it against the wall and head toward the back.

  There’s a window in his kitchen, the one just behind the sink that he always leaves cracked. And after sliding my fingers under the rim and pushing the window all the way up, I crawl over a sink overflowing with empty glass bottles before jumping to the ground, my feet landing with a muffled thud as I wonder if breaking and entering applies to concerned girlfriends too.

  I gaze around the room, taking in the wooden table and chairs, the rack of stainless steel pots, the high-tech coffeemaker, blender, and juicer—all part of the collection of the most modern kitchen gadgets money can buy (or Damen can manifest). Carefully selected to give the appearance of a normal, well-to-do life, like accessories in a beautifully decorated model home, perfectly staged and completely unused.

  I peer into his fridge, expecting to see the usual abundant supply of red juice, only to find just a few bottles instead. And when I peek inside his pantry, the place where he allows the newer batches to ferment or marinate or whatever they do in the dark for three days—I’m shocked to find that it’s barely stocked too.

  I stand there, staring at the handful of bottles, my stomach thrumming, my heart racing, knowing something’s
terribly wrong with this picture. Damen’s always so obsessive about keeping plenty of juice on hand—even more so now that he’s responsible for supplying me—that he would never allow things to get to this point.

  But then again, he’s also been going through an awful lot of it lately, chugging it to the point where his consumption has nearly doubled. So it’s entirely possible he hasn’t had time to make a new batch.

  Which sounds good in theory, sure, but it’s not at all plausible.

  I mean, who am I fooling? Damen’s extremely organized with these things, even bordering on obsessive. He would never let his brewing duties slide—not for one day.

  Not unless something was terribly wrong.

  And even though I don’t have any proof, I just know in my gut that the way he’s been acting so off lately—with the sudden blank looks that are impossible to miss no matter how quickly they fade, not to mention the sweating, the headaches, the inability to manifest everyday objects, or access the Summerland portal—well, when I add it all up, it’s clear that he’s sick.

  Only Damen doesn’t get sick.

  And when he pricked his finger on that thorny rose just a little while ago, I watched as it healed right before me.

  But still, maybe I should start calling the hospitals—just to be sure.

  Except Damen would never go to the hospital. He’d see it as a sign of weakness, defeat. He’s far more likely to crawl off like a wounded animal, hiding out somewhere where he could be alone.

  Only he doesn’t have any wounds because they instantly heal. Besides, he’d never crawl off without telling me first.

  Then again, I was also convinced he’d never drive off without me, and look how that turned out.