by Alyson Noel
And while third period is also spent spying on Damen, by fourth, I switch my focus to Roman. Looking him right in the eye as I head for my desk, swiveling around and acknowledging him whenever I sense that he’s focused on me. And even though his thoughts about me are as banal and embarrassing as Damen’s thoughts about Stacia, I refuse to blush or react. I just keep smiling and nodding, determined to grin and bear it, because if I’m going to find out who this guy really is, then avoiding him like the Black Plague will no longer do.
So when the bell rings, I decide to break free from this outcast pariah spaz role I’m unwillingly cast in, and head straight for the long line of tables. Ignoring the ping in my gut that gets worse with each step, determined to land myself a spot and sit with the rest of my class.
And when Roman nods as I make my approach, I can’t help but feel disappointed that he’s not nearly as surprised as I’d assumed he would be.
“Ever!” He smiles, patting the narrow space right next to him. “So it wasn’t just my imagination. We really did share a moment in class.”
I smile tightly and squeeze in beside him, my gaze instinctively switching to Damen, but only for a moment before I force myself to look away. Reminding myself that I need to stay focused on Roman, that it’s imperative not to get sidetracked.
“I knew you’d come around eventually. I just wish it ’adn’t taken so long. We’ve so much lost time to make up for.” He leans in, his face looming so close I can see the individual flecks of color in his eyes, brilliant points of violet that would be so easy to get lost in—
“This is nice. Isn’t this nice? Everyone together like this—all joined as one. And all this time you were the missing link. But now that you’re ’ere, my mission’s complete. And you thought it couldn’t be done.” He tilts his head back and laughs—eyes closed, teeth exposed, as his tousled golden hair catches the glint of the sun. And even though I hate to admit it, the truth is, he’s mesmerizing.
Not in the same way as Damen, in fact, not even close. Roman’s good looking in a way that reminds me of my old life, having just the right amount of superficial charm and well-calculated hotness that I would’ve fallen for before. Back when I accepted things at face value and rarely, if ever, looked past the surface.
I watch as he takes a bite of his Mars bar, then I switch my gaze back to Damen. Taking in his gorgeous dark profile as my heart fills with such overwhelming longing I can hardly bear it. Watching his hands flail about as he amuses Stacia with some stupid story, though I’m far less interested in the anecdote than the hands themselves, remembering how wonderful they once felt on my skin—
“… so, as nice as it is to have you join us, I can’t help but wonder what this is really about,” Roman says, his eyes still on me.
But I’m still looking at Damen. Watching as he presses his lips against Stacia’s cheek, before working their way around her ear and down the length of her neck …
“Because as much as I’d like to pretend you were overcome by my undeniable good looks and charm, I know better. So tell me, Ever, what gives?”
I can hear Roman talking, his voice droning on and on in the background like a vague incessant hum that’s easy to ignore, but my gaze stays on Damen—the love of my life, my eternal soul mate who’s completely unaware of the fact that I even exist. My stomach twisting as his lips brush over her collarbone before heading back to her ear, his mouth moving softly as he whispers to her, trying to coax her into ditching the rest of their classes so they can head back to his house …
Wait—coax her? He’s trying to convince her? Does that mean she’s not ready and willing?
Am I the only one around here who just assumed they’d already jumped each other’s bones?
But just as I’m about to tune in to Stacia and see what she could possibly be up to by playing hard to get, Roman taps me on the arm and says, “Aw, come on, Ever. Don’t be shy. Tell me what you’re doing here. Tell me just exactly what it is that put you over the edge.”
And before I can even reply, Stacia looks at me and says, “Jeez, Spaz, stare much?”
I don’t respond. I just pretend I didn’t hear while I focus on Damen. Refusing to acknowledge her presence, even though they’re so entwined they’re practically fused. Wishing he’d just turn around and see me—really see me—in the way that he used to.
But when he does finally look, his gaze goes right through me, as though I’m not worth the bother, as though I’m invisible now.
And seeing him glance through me like that leaves me numb, breathless, frozen, unable to move—
“Um, hel-lo?” Stacia shouts, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I mean, seriously. Can we help you? Can anyone help you?”
I glance at Miles and Haven sitting just a few feet away, watching as they shake their heads, both of them wishing they’d never had anything to do with me. Then I swallow hard and remind myself that they’re not in control—that Roman’s the writer, producer, director, and creator of this God-awful show.
I meet Roman’s gaze, my stomach twisting, pinging, as I peer into the thoughts in his head. Determined to dig past the superficial layer of the usual inane stuff, curious to see if there’s anything more than the horny, annoying, sugar-addicted teen he portrays himself to be. Because the fact is, I’m not buying it. The image I saw on that crystal, with the evil grin of victory spread wide across his face, hints at a much darker side. And as his smile grows wider and his gaze narrows on mine—everything dims.
Everything except Roman and me.
I’m hurtling through a tunnel, pulled faster and faster by a force beyond my control. Slipping uncontrollably into the dark abyss of his mind, as Roman carefully selects the scenes he wants me to see—Damen throwing a party in our suite at the Montage, a party that includes Stacia, Honor, Craig, and all the other kids who never talked to us before, a party that lasts several days, until he’s finally kicked out for trashing the place. Forcing me to view all manner of unsavory acts, stuff I’d rather not see—culminating on the final image I saw on the crystal that day—the very last scene.
I fall back from my seat, landing on the ground in a tangle of limbs, still caught in his grip. Finally coming around just as the entire school breaks into a shrill mocking chorus of “Spaz!” And watching in horror as my spilled red elixir races across the tabletop and drips down the sides.
“You all right?” Roman asks, gazing at me as I struggle to stand. “I know it’s tough to watch. Believe me, Ever, I’ve been there. But it’s all for the best, really it is. And I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me on that.”
“I knew it was you,” I whisper, standing before him, shaking with rage. “I knew it all along.”
“So you did.” He smiles. “So you did. Score one for you. Though I should warn you, I’m still a good ten points ahead.”
“You won’t get away with this,” I say, watching in horror as he dips his middle finger into the puddle of my spilled red drink, allowing the drops to fall onto his tongue in such a deliberate, measured way, it’s like he’s trying to tell me something, give me a nudge.
But just as an idea begins to form in my head, he licks his lips and says, “But see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Turning his head in a way that displays the mark on his neck, the finely detailed Ouroboros tattoo now flashing in and out of view. “I’ve already gotten away with it, Ever.” He smiles. “I’ve already won.”
twenty-eight
I didn’t go to art. I left right after lunch.
No, scratch that. Because the truth is I left in the middle of lunch. Seconds after my horrible encounter with Roman, I sprinted for the parking lot (chased by a never-ending chorus of Spaz!), where I jumped in my car and sped away long before the bell was scheduled to ring.
I needed to get away from Roman. To put some distance between me and his creepy tattoo—the intricate Ouroboros design that flashed in and out of view just like the one on Drina’s wrist used to do.
The undeniable
symbol marking Roman as a rogue immortal—just as I’d thought all along.
And even though Damen failed to warn me of them, didn’t even know they existed until Drina went bad, I still can’t believe it took me so long to get it. I mean, even though he eats and drinks, even though his aura is visible and his thoughts are available to read (well, for me anyway), I realize now it was all a façade. Like those buildings on Hollywood back lots that are carefully crafted to look like something they’re not. And that’s what Roman did—he purposely projected this happy-go-lucky, jolly young lad from England veneer, with his bright shiny aura, and happy, horny thoughts, when all the while, deep down inside, he’s anything but.
The real Roman is dark.
And sinister.
And evil.
And everything else that adds up to bad. But even worse is the fact that he’s out to kill my boyfriend, and I still don’t know why.
Because motive was the one thing in my brief but disturbing visit to the inner recesses of his mind that I failed to see.
And motive will prove very important if I’m ever forced to kill him, since it’s imperative to hit just the right chakra to be rid of him for good. And not knowing the motive means I could fail.
I mean, would I go for the first chakra—or root chakra, as it’s sometimes called—the center for anger, violence, and greed? Or maybe the navel chakra, or sacral center, which is where envy and jealousy live. But with no idea of what’s driving him, it’d be far too easy to hit the wrong one. Which would not only serve in not killing him but would probably make him incredibly angry as well. Leaving me with six more chakras to choose from, and at that point, I’m afraid he’d catch on.
Besides, killing Roman too soon will only hurt me—ensuring he takes his secret of whatever he’s done to Damen and the rest of the school along with him. And that’s one risk I just can’t afford. Not to mention that I’m really not all that big on killing people anyway. The only times I’ve ever gotten physical in the past are when I was left with no choice but to fight or die. And as soon as I realized what I’d done to Drina, I hoped I’d never have to do it again. Because even though she killed me many times before, even though she admitted to killing my entire family—including my dog—that doesn’t do much to alleviate the guilt. I mean, knowing I’m solely responsible for her ultimate exit makes me feel awful.
And since I’m pretty much right back where I started, I decide to head back to the beginning. Turning right on Coast Highway and heading for Damen’s, figuring I’ll use the next couple hours while they’re all still at school to break into his house and take a good look around.
I pull up to the guard post, wave at Sheila, and continue toward the gate. Naturally assuming it would open before me, and having to slam on my brakes to avoid major front-end damage when it stays put.
“Excuse me. Excuse me!” Sheila shouts, storming toward my car as though I’m some kind of intruder, as though she’s never seen me before. When the truth is, up until last week, I was pretty much here every day.
“Hey, Sheila.” I smile in a nice, friendly, nonthreatening way. “I’m just heading up to Damen’s, so if you could just open the gate, I’ll be on my way and—”
She looks at me, her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed together in a thin grim line. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“What? But why?”
“You’re off the list,” she says, hands planted firmly on hips, her face betraying not even the slightest trace of remorse after all those months of smiling and waving.
I sit there, lips pressed together, allowing the words to sink in.
I’m off the list. I’m off the permanent list. Blackballed or blacklisted or whatever it’s called when you’re denied access to a glorious gated community for an indefinite time.
Which would be bad enough on its own, but having to hear the official breakup message delivered by Big Sheila instead of my boyfriend—makes it even worse.
I gaze down at my lap, gripping the gearshift so hard it threatens to pop off in my hand. Then I swallow hard and look at her when I say, “Well, as you’ve obviously been made aware, Damen and I broke up. But I was just hoping to drop in real quick and retrieve a few of my things, because as you can see—” I unzip my bag and quickly shove my hand inside. “I still have the key.”
I raise it up high, watching as the noonday sun catches and reflects the gold shiny metal, too caught up in my own mortification to foresee that she’d reach out and snatch it.
“Now, I’m asking you nicely to vacate the premises,” she says, shoving the key deep into her pocket, its shape visible as the fabric strains over her mammoth-sized breasts. Barely giving me enough time to switch my foot from the brake to the gas before adding, “Go on now. Back up. Don’t you make me ask twice.”
twenty-nine
This time when I arrive in Summerland, I skip the usual landing in that vast fragrant field, choosing instead to touch down smack in the middle of what I now like to think of as the main drag. Then I pick myself up and brush myself off, amazed to see everyone around me just carrying on with their normal business, as though seeing someone drop right out of the sky and onto the street is a normal, everyday occurrence. Though I guess in these parts it is.
I make my way past karaoke bars and hair salons, retracing the steps Romy and Rayne showed me, knowing I can probably just desire to be there instead, but still anxious to learn my own way around. And after a quick pass through the alley and a sudden turn onto the boulevard, I run up those steep marble steps and stand before those massive front doors, watching as they swing open for me.
I step into the great marble hall, noticing how it’s much more crowded than the last time I was here. Reviewing the questions in my head, unsure if I need the akashic records or if I can just get my answers right here. Wondering if questions like Exactly who is Roman and what has he done to Damen? and: How can I stop him and spare Damen’s life? require that kind of secured access.
But then, feeling like I need to simplify and sum it all up in one tidy sentence, I close my eyes and think: Basically, what I want to know is: How can I return everything back to the way it was before?
And as soon as the thought is complete, a doorway opens before me, its warm inviting light beckoning me in as I enter a solid white room, that same sort of rainbow white as before, only this time, rather than a white marble bench, there’s a worn leather recliner instead.
I move toward it, plopping onto the seat, extending the leg rest, and settling in. Unaware that I’m lounging on an exact replica of my dad’s favorite chair until I see the initials R.B. and E.B. scratched onto its arm. Gasping when I recognize it as the exact same markings I convinced Riley to make with her Girl Scout camping knife. The exact same markings that not only proved we were the culprits but also earned us a week’s worth of restriction.
Or at least until mine got extended to ten days when my parents realized I’d coached her into doing it—a fact that, in their eyes, made me the pre-calculating perpetrator who clearly deserved extra time.
I run my fingers over the gouged leather, my nails digging into the stuffing where the curve of her R went too deep. Choking back a sob as I remember that day. All of those days. Every single one of those deliciously wonderful days that I once took for granted but now find myself missing so much I can barely stand it.
I’d do anything to go back. Anything if it meant I could return and put it all back to the way it once was—
And no sooner is the thought complete, when the formerly empty space begins to transform. Rearranging itself from a nearly empty room with a lone recliner to an exact replica of our old den in Oregon.
The air infused with the scent of my mom’s famous brownies, as the walls morph from pearlescent white to the soft beige-like hue she referred to as driftwood pearl. And when the three-colors-of-blue afghan my grandma knit suddenly covers my knees, I gaze toward the door, seeing Buttercup’s leash hanging on the knob, and Riley’s old sneake
rs lying next to my dad’s. Watching as all the pieces fill in, until every photo, book, and knickknack are present and accounted for. And I can’t help but wonder if this is because of my question, because I asked for everything to return to the way it was before.
Because the truth is, I was actually referring to Damen and me.
Wasn’t I?
I mean, is it really possible to go back in time?
Or is this lifelike replica, this Bloom family diorama, the closest I’ll ever get?
But just as I’m questioning my surroundings and the true meaning of what I actually meant, the TV turns on, and a flash of colors race across the screen—a screen made of crystal, just like the crystal I viewed the other day.
I pull the afghan tighter around me, tucking it snugly under my knees, as the words l’heure bleue fill up the screen. And just as I’m wondering what it could possibly mean, a definition scripted in the most beautiful calligraphy appears, stating:
A French expression, l’heure bleue, or “blue hour” refers to the hour experienced between daylight and darkness. A time revered for its quality of light, and also when the scent of flowers is at its strongest.
I squint at the screen, watching as the words fade and a picture of the moon takes its place—a full and glorious moon—shimmering the most beautiful shade of blue—a hue that nearly matches the sky …
And then—and then I see me—up on that very same screen. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, my hair hanging loose, gazing out a window at that same blue moon—glancing at my watch as though I’m waiting for something—something that’s soon to arrive. And despite the fuzzy, dreamlike state of watching a me that’s not really me, I can still feel what she’s feeling, hear what she’s thinking. She’s going somewhere, somewhere she once thought was off limits. Anxiously waiting for the moment when the sky turns the same shade as the moon, a wonderful deep dark blue with no trace of the sun—knowing it heralds her only chance to find her way back to this room and return to a place she once thought was lost.
