by Alyson Noel
I grip the banister, cringing as the stairs groan beneath me, their high-pitched protest alarmingly loud in this vast vacant space. And when I make my way to the landing, I come face to face with the door Riley found locked. Only this time it's left open, pushed slightly ajar.
I creep toward it, summoning the voice in my head, desperate for some kind of guidance. But the only answer I get is the sound of my own beating heart as I press my palm flat against it, then gasp as it opens to a room so ornate, so formal, so grand, it seems straight out of Versailles.
I pause in the doorway, struggling to take it all in. The finely woven tapestries, the antique rugs, the crystal chandeliers, the golden candelabras, the heavy silk draperies, the velvet settee, the marble-topped table piled with tomes. Even the walls, the entire area between the wainscoting and crown molding is covered by large gilt-framed paintings-all of them capturing Damen in costumes that span several centuries, including one of him astride a white stallion, silver sword by his side, wearing the exact same jacket he wore Halloween night.
I move toward it, my eyes seeking the hole on the shoulder, the frayed spot he jokingly blamed on artillery fire. Startled to find it right there in the picture, as I run my finger along it, spellbound, mesmerized, wondering what kind of freaky elaborate ruse he's concocted as my fingertips graze all the way down to the small brass plaque at the bottom that reads:
DAMEN AUGUSTE ESPOSITO, MAY I775
I turn to the one beside it, my heart racing as I gaze at a portrait of an unsmiling Damen, cloaked in a severe dark suit, surrounded by blue, its plaque bearing the words:
DAMEN AUGUSTE AS PAINTED BY PABLO PICASSO IN I902
And the one next to that, its heavily textured swirls forming the likeness of
DAMEN ESPOSITO AS PAINTED BY VINCENT VAN GOGH
And on it goes, all four walls displaying Damen's likeness painted by all the great masters.
I sink onto the velvet settee, eyes bleary, knees weak, my mind racing with a thousand possibilities, each of them equally ridiculous. Then I grasp the book nearest to me, flip to the title page, and read: For Damen Auguste Esposito. Signed by William Shakespeare. I drop it to the floor and reach for the next, Wuthering Heights, for Damen Auguste, signed by Emily Bronte.
Every book made out to Damen Auguste Esposito, or Damen Auguste, or just Damen. All of them signed by an author who's been dead for more than a century.
I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on slowing my breath as my heart races, my hands shake, telling myself it's all some kind of joke, that Damen's some freaky history buff, antique collector, an art counterfeiter who's gone too far. Perhaps these are prized family heirlooms, left from a long line of great, great, great, grandfathers, all bearing the same name and uncanny resemblance.
But when I look around again, the chill down my spine tells the undeniable truth-these aren't merely antiques, nor are they heirlooms. These are Damen's personal possessions, the favored treasures he's collected through the years.
I stagger to my feet and stumble into the hall, feeling shaky, unstable, desperate to escape this creepy room, this hideous, gaudy, overstuffed mausoleum, this crypt-like house. Wanting to put as much distance between us as I possibly can, and to never, ever, under any circumstances, come back here again.
I've just reached the bottom stair when I hear a loud piercing scream followed by a long muffled moan, and without even thinking, I turn and race toward it, following the sound to the end of the hall and rushing through the door, finding Damen on the floor, his clothes torn, his face dripping with blood, while Haven thrashes and moans underneath him.
"Ever!" he shouts, springing to his feet and holding me back as I lunge, fight, and kick, desperate to get to her.
"What have you done to her?" I shout, glancing between them, seeing her pale skin, her eyes rolling back in her head, and knowing there's no time to waste.
"Ever, please, stop," he says, his voice sounding too sure, too measured for the incriminating circumstances he's in.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?" I scream, kicking, hitting, biting, screaming, scratching, using every ounce of my strength, but it's no match for him. He just stands there, holding me with one hand, while absorbing my blows with barely a grimace.
"Ever, please, let me explain," he says, dodging my furiously kicking feet that are aiming right for him.
As I stare at my friend who's bleeding profusely, grimacing in pain, a terrible realization sweeps right through me-this is why he tried to keep me away!
"No! That's not it at all. You've got it all wrong. Yes, I didn't want you to see this, though it's not what you think."
He holds me up high, my legs dangling like a rag doll, and despite all my punching and fighting, he hasn't even broken a sweat.
But I don't care about Damen. I don't even care about me. All I care about is Haven, whose lips are turning blue, as her breath grows alarmingly weak.
"What have you done to her?" I glare at him with all the hate I can muster. "What have you done to her, you freak?"
"Ever, please, I need you to listen," he pleads, his eyes begging mine.
And despite all my anger, despite my adrenaline, I can still feel that warm languid tingle of his hands on my skin, and I fight like hell to ignore it. Yelling and screaming and kicking my feet, aiming for his most vulnerable parts, but always missing since he's so much quicker than me.
"You can't help her, trust me, I'm the only one who can."
"You're not helping her, you're killing her!" I shout.
He shakes his head and looks at me, his face appearing tired when he whispers, "Hardly."
I try to pull away again, but it's no use, I can't beat him. So I stop, allowing myself to go limp as I close my eyes in surrender. Thinking: So this is how it happens. This is how I disappear… And the moment he relaxes his grip, I kick my foot as hard as I can, my boot hitting its target as he loosens his grip and I drop to the floor.
I spring toward Haven, my fingers slipping to her bloodcovered wrist as I search for a pulse, my eyes fixed on the two small holes in the center of her creepy tattoo, as I beg her to keep breathing, to hang on.
And just as I reach for my cell, intending to call 911, Damen comes up behind me, grabs the phone out of my hand, and says, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this."
Twenty-Four
When I wake, I'm lying in bed with Sabine looming over me, her face a mask of relief, her thoughts a maze of concern.
"Hey," she says, smiling and shaking her head. "You must've had some weekend."
I squint first at her and then at the clock. Then I spring out of bed when I realize the time.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asks, trailing behind me. "You were already asleep when I got home last night. You're not sick are you?"
I head for the shower, not sure how to answer. Because even though I don't feel sick, I can't imagine how I slept so long and so late.
"Anything I should know about? Anything you need to tell me?" she asks, standing outside the door.
I close my eyes and rewind the weekend, remembering the beach, Evangeline, Damen staying over and making me dinner, followed by breakfast-"No, nothing happened," I finally say.
"Well, you better hurry if you want to make it to school on time. You sure you're all right?"
"Yes," I say, trying to sound clear-cut, unambiguous, sure as sure can be, as I turn on the taps and step into the spray, not sure if I'm lying or if it's true..
The whole way to school Miles talks about Eric. Giving the lowdown, the entire step-by-step of their Sunday night message breakup, trying to convince me that he couldn't care less, that he is completely and totally over him, which pretty much proves that he's not.
"Are you even listening to me?" He scowls.
"Of course," I mumble, stopping at a light, just a block from school, my mind running through my own weekend events, and I always ending at breakfast. No matter how hard I try, I can't remember anything after that.
"Coul
d've fooled me." He smirks and looks out the window: "I mean, if I'm boring you, just say so. Because believe me, I am so over Eric. Did I ever tell you about that time when he-"
"Miles, have you talked to Haven?" I ask, glancing at him briefly before the light turns green.
He shakes his head. "You?"
"I don't think so." I press down on the gas, wondering why just saying her name fills me with dread..
"You don't think so?" His eyes go wide as he shifts in his seat. "Not since Friday"
I pull into the parking lot, my heart beating triple time when I see Damen in his usual spot, leaning against his car, waiting for me.
"Well, at least one of us has a shot at happily ever after," Miles says, nodding at Damen who comes around to my side, a single red tulip in hand.
"Good morning." He smiles handing me the flower and kissing my cheek, as I mumble an incoherent reply and head for the gate. The bell rings as Miles sprints toward class and Damen takes my hand and leads me into English. "Mr. Robins is on his way," he whispers, squeezing my fingers as he leads me past Stacia, who scowls at me and sticks out her foot, before moving it out of my way at the very last second. "He's off the sauce, trying to get his wife back." His lips curve against my ear as I pick up the pace and move away I slide onto my seat and unload my books, wondering why my boyfriend's presence is making me feel so edgy and weird, then reach inside my iPod pocket and panic when I realize I left it at home.
"You don't need that," Damen says, reaching for my hand and smoothing my fingers with his.
"You have me now."
I close my eyes, knowing Mr. Robins will be here in just three, two, one"
"Ever," Damen whispers, his fingers tracing over the veins on my wrist. "You feeling okay?"
I press my lips together and nod.
"Good." He pauses. "I had a great weekend, I hope you did too."
I open my eyes just as Mr. Robins walks in, noticing how his eyes aren't as puffy, his face not as red, though his hands are still a little shaky "Yesterday was fun, don't you think?"
I turn to Damen, gazing into his eyes, my skin infused with warmth and tingle merely because his hand is on mine. Then I nod in agreement, knowing it's the response he wants, even though I'm not sure that it's true.
The next couple of hours are a blur of classes and confusion, and it's not until I get to the lunch table that I learn the truth about yesterday.
"I can't believe you guys went in the water," Miles says, stirring his yoghurt and looking at me. "Do you have any idea how cold it is?"
"She wore a wet suit." Damen shrugs. "In fact, you left it at my house."
I unwrap my sandwich, not remembering any of it. I don't even own a wet suit. Do I? "Um, wasn't that Friday?" I ask, blushing when all the events of that day come rushing back to me.
Damen shakes his head. "You didn't surf on Friday, I did. Sunday was when I gave you a lesson."
I peel the crust off my sandwich, and try to remember, but it keeps coming up blank.
"So, was she any good?" Miles asks, licking his spoon and gazing from Damen to me.
"Well, it was pretty flat so there wasn't much to surf. Mostly we just lay on the beach, under some blankets. And yeah, she's pretty good at that." He laughs.
I gaze at Damen wondering if my wet suit was on or off under those blankets, and what, if anything happened under there? Is it possible that I tried to make up for Friday, then blocked it out so I can't even remember it?
Miles looks at me, brows raised, but I just shrug and take a bite of my sandwich.
"Which beach?" he asks.
But since I can't remember, I turn to Damen. "Crystal Cove," he says, sipping his drink.
Miles shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Please tell me. You're not turning into one of those couples where the guy does all the talking. I mean, does he order for you in restaurants too?"
I look at Damen, but before he can answer Miles goes, "No, I'm asking you, Ever."
I think back to our two restaurant meals, one that wonderful day at Disneyland that ended so strangely, and the other at the racetrack when we won all that money. "I order my own meals," I say. And then I look at him and go, "Can I borrow your Sidekick?"
He pulls it from his pocket and slides it toward me. "Why? You forget your phone?"
"Yeah and I want to text Haven and see where she is. I have the weirdest feeling about her." I shake my head, not knowing how to explain it to myself, much less to them. "I can't stop thinking about her," I say, fingers tapping the tiny keyboard.
"She's at home, sick," Miles says. "Some kind of flu. Plus she's sad about Evangeline, though she swears she no longer hates us."
"I thought you said you hadn't talked to her." I pause and gaze up at him, sure that's what he said in the car.
"I sent her a text in history."
"So she's okay?" I stare at Miles, my stomach a jumble of nerves though I can't begin to grasp why.
"Puking her guts out, mourning the loss of her friend, but yeah, basically fine."
I return the Sidekick to Miles, figuring there's no use in bothering her if she's not feeling well.
Then Damen puts his hand on my leg, Miles goes on about Eric, and I pick at my lunch, going through the motions of nodding and smiling, but unable to shake my unease.
Wouldn't you know it, the one day Damen decides to spend the whole day at school just happens to be the day I wish he would've ditched. Because every time I get out of class, I find him standing right outside the door, anxiously waiting, and asking if I'm feeling okay. And it's really starting to get on my nerves.
So after art, when we're walking to the parking lot and he offers to follow me home, I just look at him and say, "Um, if it's okay with you, I need to be by myself for a while."
"Is everything okay?" he asks for the millionth time.
But I just nod and climb inside, anxious to close the door and put some distance between us. "I just need to catch up on a few things, but I'll see you tomorrow; okay?" And not giving him a chance to reply, I back out of my space and drive away.
When I get home, I'm so incredibly tired I head straight for my bed, planning to take a short nap before Sabine comes home and starts worrying about me again. But when I wake up in the middle of the night, with my heart pounding and my clothes soaked with sweat, I have this undeniable feeling I'm not alone in my room.
I reach for my pillow; grasping it tightly as though those soft downy feathers will serve as some sort of shield, then I peer into the dark space before me, and whisper, "Riley?" Even though I'm pretty sure it's'not her.
I hold my breath, hearing a soft muted sound, like slippers on carpet, over by the french doors, and I surprise myself by whispering, "Damen?" as I peer into the dark, unable to make out anything other than a soft swishing sound.
I fumble for the light switch, squinting against the sudden brightness, and searching for the intruder, so sure I had company, so positive I wasn't alone, that I'm almost disappointed when I find my room empty.
I climb out of bed, still clutching my pillow, as I lock the french doors. Then I peek into my closet and under my bed, like my Dad used to do those long ago nights he reported for boogeyman duty. But not finding anything, I crawl back in bed, wondering if it was possibly my dream that sparked all these fears.
It was similar to the one I had before, where I was running through a dark windswept canyon, my filmy white dress a poor defense against the cold, inviting the wind to lash at my skin, chilling me straight through to my bones. And yet I barely noticed, I was so focused on running, my bare feet carving into the damp, muddy: earth, heading toward a hazy refuge I couldn't quite see.
All I know is that I was running toward a soft glowing light.
And away from Damen.
Twenty-Five
The next day at school, I park in my usual space, jump out of my car, and run right past Damen, heading for Haven who's waiting by the gate. And even though I normally do everything possible to avoid phys
ical contact, I grab onto her shoulders and hug her right to me.
"Okay, okay, I love you too." She laughs, shaking her head and pushing me away. "I mean, jeez, it's not like I was going to stay mad at you guys forever."
Her dyed red hair is dry and limp, her black nail polish is chipped, the hollows under her eyes seem darker than usual, and her face is decidedly pale. But even though she assures me she's okay, I can't help but reach out and hug her again.
"How're you feeling?" I ask, eyeing her carefully, trying to get a read, but other than her aura appearing gray, weak, and translucent, I can't see much of anything.
"What is going on with you?" she says, shaking her head and pushing me away. "What's with all the love and affection? I mean! you of all people, you of the eternal iPod-hoodie combo."
"I heard you were sick, and then when you weren't at school yesterday-" I stop, feeling ridiculous to be hovering like this. But she just laughs. "I know what's going on here." She nods. "This is your fault, isn't it?" She points at Damen. "You just had to come along and thaw out my icy cold friend, turning her into a sentimental, warm, fuzzy sap."
And even though Damen laughs, it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"It was just the flu," she says as Miles loops his arm through hers and we head past the gate.
"And I guess being all depressed about Evangeline made it that much worse. I mean, I was so feverish, I actually blacked out a few times."
