by Alyson Noel
Wanting nothing more than to kiss this dark and handsome stranger, who always seems to appear out of nowhere, who always seems to know what I’m thinking, who thrilled me with his tingle and heat from the very first look.
The very first moment he peered into my soul.
three
“Shouldn’t you be thinking about leaving for school soon?”
I twist the top from my bottle of elixir and glance toward the kitchen table where Sabine sits. Seeing the way her shoulder-length blond hair is tucked snugly behind her ear, the way her perfectly coordinated makeup is flawlessly applied, the way her suit is pressed and clean and immaculately put together without an odd crease or stray wrinkle in sight—and I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to be her. What it’s like to live in a world where everything is so orderly, so obedient, so methodical, so tidily arranged.
Where every problem has a logical solution, every question an academic explanation, and every dilemma can be summed up in a simple verdict of innocent or guilty.
A world where everything is black and white and all shades of gray are promptly whisked away.
It’s been so long since I’ve lived in that world, and now after all that I’ve seen, there’s no way I’ll ever reside there again.
She continues to stare, face stern, mouth grim, about to repeat herself when I say, “Damen’s driving me today. He should be here soon.”
Noting the way her whole body stiffens at the mere mention of his name. She insists on blaming him for my sudden fall from grace even though he was nowhere near the store that day.
She nods, her gaze slowly moving over me. Scrutinizing, carefully taking note of every last detail, starting from my head and working all the way down to my toes, before heading back up and starting again. In search of bad omens, flashing lights, hazard signs, anything warning of trouble ahead. The kind of telltale symptoms her child-rearing books have all warned her about, but getting little more than an image of a lightly tanned, blond haired, blue eyed girl in a white summer dress and no shoes.
“I hope we won’t have any more trouble this year.” She brings her mug to her lips and peers at me from over the top.
“And just what kind of trouble would you be referring to?” I ask, hating the way the sarcasm creeps so easily into my voice, but still more than a little tired of her always putting me on the defensive.
“I think you know.” Her words are clipped, her forehead creased, as I take a deep breath and try not to roll my eyes in a way she can see.
Torn between feeling completely heartbroken that it’s actually come to this—the long list of daily recriminations that can never be erased—and feeling completely infuriated by her refusal to accept me at my word—accept what I say as the truth, that this is who I really, truly am, for better or worse.
But still just shrugging when I say, “Well, then you’ll be happy to know that I don’t drink anymore. I gave all that up not long after the suspension. Mostly because it wasn’t working out for me all that well, and even though you probably don’t want to hear this, probably won’t even believe it, it was dulling my gifts in the very worst way.”
She bristles. Physically bristles at my use of the word gift. Having already pegged me as a sad, pathetic, attention-starved phony, who’s obviously crying out for help—she’s really come to hate my use of the word more than anything. Hates that I refuse to back down, that I refuse to succumb to her side.
“Besides,” I say, tapping my bottle against the counter, my gaze narrowed on hers, “I’ve no doubt you’ve already convinced Munoz to spy on me and submit a full report at the end of each day.” Regretting the words the moment they’re out, because while it may be true of Sabine, it’s really not fair to Munoz. He’s been nothing but nice and supportive toward me, and has never once made me feel bad about being the way I am. If anything, he’s seemed intrigued, fascinated, and surprisingly informed. Too bad he can’t seem to convince his girlfriend of that.
But still, if she’s so unwilling to accept me for me, then why should I be so quick to accept the fact that she’s in love with my old history teacher?
Except that I should.
And not only because two wrongs pretty much never make a right, but because, despite what she may think and despite what I may say, at the end of the day, all I really want is for her to be happy.
Well, that, and for her to move past all of this so that we can get back to how we once lived.
“Listen,” I say, before she has a chance to react, knowing I need to defuse the situation from getting any worse than it already has. Before it has a chance to escalate into one of the many screaming matches we’ve had since she caught me giving her friend a psychic reading under the alias of Avalon. “I didn’t mean that. Really. I’m sorry.” I nod. “So, can we just please call a truce here? One where you accept me, I accept you, and everyone lives happily ever after, in joy and peace and harmony and all that?”
I look at her, my gaze practically begging for her to give in, but she just shakes her head and mumbles under her breath. Something about me needing to come straight home from school from now until she decides otherwise.
But even though I love her—even though I’m grateful for all that she’s done—there will be no restrictions, no groundings, nothing of the sort. Because the fact is, it’s not like I need to live here. It’s not like I need to put up with this stuff. I have options—lots and lots of options. And she has no idea just how far I go to make it seem like I don’t.
Pretending to eat when I no longer need to, pretending to study when it’s no longer necessary, pretending to be just like any other normal seventeen-year-old girl who’s dependent on the adults in her life for food and shelter and money and pretty much her entire well-being—when I’m not even close to being that girl. I’m about as far from that as one could possibly get. And it’s my job to make sure she never discovers any more than she already has.
“How about this,” I say, swishing my elixir around and around, watching as it sparks and glows as it runs up and down the sides. “I’ll make a concerted effort to stay out of trouble and out of your way—if you’ll agree to do the same. Deal?”
She looks at me, brows merged, obviously trying to determine if I’m being sincere or making some kind of threat. Lips pursed for a moment, long enough to gather her words before she says, “Ever—I—I’m just so worried about you.” She shakes her head and runs her finger along the rim of her mug. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you are deeply, deeply troubled, and I’m at my wit’s end on how to handle you, how to reach you, how to help you—”
I slam the lid back on my bottle, my last ounce of goodwill dissolving like that. Gaze narrowed on her when I say, “Yeah, well, maybe this’ll help. One—if you really want to help me as much as you say you do, you could start by not calling me crazy.” I shake my head and slip my sandals onto my feet, sensing Damen pulling into the drive, and not a moment too soon. “And two”—I toss my bag onto my shoulder and meet her glare with one of my own—“you could also stop referring to me as an attention-starved, deeply troubled, needy fraud—or some variation thereof.” I nod. “Those two things alone would be a very good start toward helping me, Sabine.”
Giving her no time to react before I storm out of the kitchen and out of the house, slamming the door much harder than I intended, but still just shrugging it off as I head for Damen’s car.
Sliding onto the soft leather seat and squinting at him when he says, “So, this is what it’s come to.”
I follow the tip of his pointing finger all the way to the window where Sabine stands. Not bothering to peek through the blinds or even the crack where the drapes meet. Not trying to hide the fact that she’s watching me—watching us. She just continues to stand there, mouth set, face stern, one hand on each hip, as she takes us both in.
I sigh, purposely avoiding her gaze in favor of his. “Just be glad I spared you the interrogation you would’ve gotten had you come in.” I shake
my head. “Trust me, there’s a reason I told you to wait out here,” I add, still drinking him in.
“She still at it?”
I nod and roll my eyes.
“You sure I can’t talk to her? Maybe it’ll help.”
“Forget it.” I shake my head, wishing he’d just back up the car already and get me out of this place. “There’s no reasoning with her—she’s completely unreasonable and, trust me, your trying to talk to her will only make it worse.”
“Worse than the evil eye she just shot me from her perch at the window?” He glances between the rearview mirror and me as he backs down the drive, his lip curling in a way that’s a little more playful than I’d like.
This is serious.
I’m serious.
And even though it may not be all that serious to him, it’s still a pretty big deal to me.
But when I look at him again, I decide to let it go and cut him some slack. Reminding myself how the sheer breadth of his years, the expanse of his six centuries’ worth of living, has left him more or less unfazed by the smaller, everyday dramas that always seem to take up so much space.
As far as Damen sees it, pretty much everything other than me slips into the “not worth the bother” category. To the point where it seems like the only thing he really cares about these days, the only thing he really focuses on, even more than finding an antidote so that we can finally be together after four hundred years of waiting, is protecting my soul from the Shadowland. As far as he’s concerned, everything else just pales in comparison.
And even though I really do get the big pictureness of it all, I can’t stop caring about the “smaller” stuff as well.
And, unfortunately for Damen, the best way for me to make sense of it and sort it all out in my head, is to discuss it over and over again.
Believe me, you were spared, and spared big time. Had you insisted on coming in, it would’ve been way worse than that. The words coursing from my mind to his as I gaze out the windshield before me, amazed to see how unbelievably bright, hot, and sunny the day already is, even though it’s only a few minutes past eight in the morning. And I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get used to this—if I’ll ever stop comparing my new life in Laguna Beach, California, to the one I left behind in Eugene, Oregon.
If I’ll ever be able to stop looking back.
My thoughts returning to the subject when Damen squeezes my knee and says, “Don’t worry, she’ll come around.”
But even though his voice is confident, his expression tells otherwise. His words were based way more on hope than conviction—his desire to ease my mind easily trumps his desire for truth. Because the fact is, if Sabine hasn’t come around by now, then it’s highly doubtful she ever will, or at least not anytime soon.
“You know what bugs me the most?” I say, knowing he does, he’s heard it before, but continuing anyway. “It’s, like, no matter what I tell her, no matter how many times I try to prove it to her by reading her mind, and revealing all kinds of odd little nuggets about her past, present, and future that I couldn’t possibly know if I wasn’t psychic—it doesn’t make a dent. In fact, it seems like it does just the opposite. Just convinces her to dig her heels in even deeper, absolutely refusing to consider any of my arguments, or anything else I have to say on the matter. She completely refuses to crack open her mind just the tiniest bit. Instead, she just shoots me that grim, judgmental look of hers, totally convinced that I’m faking, making the whole thing up in some big, pathetic bid for attention. Like I’ve totally and completely lost my mind.” I shake my head and tuck my long blond hair back behind my ears, as my cheeks warm and flush. This is the part that really gets me going, leaves me all red faced and agitated every single time. “Even after I asked her why on earth I’d waste so much time and effort working that hard to keep my abilities a secret if I was only interested in the attention they’d get me—even after I begged her to listen to her own stupid argument so she could see how it doesn’t make even the slightest bit of sense—she still refused to budge. I mean, she actually accused me of fraud!” I close my eyes and frown, remembering the moment so clearly it’s as though it’s happening right here before me.
Sabine barging into my room the morning after Roman died, the morning after I’d lost all hope of ever truly being with Damen, of ever getting the antidote. Not even giving me a chance to fully wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and prepare myself in some way.
Confronting me in a blaze of self-righteous fury, her blue eyes narrowed on mine, as she said, “Ever, don’t you think you owe me an explanation for last night?”
I shake my head and clear the image from my mind. My gaze meeting Damen’s when I say, “Because according to her, there is no such thing as psychic powers, extrasensory perception, or anything else of the sort. According to her, no one can see into the future. It’s just a bogus claim made by a bunch of money-grubbing, unscrupulous, charlatan frauds like me! And I’ve been willfully engaging in fraud from the moment I took money for my first psychic reading. And, in case you didn’t know, there are legal ramifications for that sort of thing, which, of course, she then took the pleasure of listing for me.” I look at Damen, as wide-eyed and agitated as the first time I told the story. “So last night, when she had the nerve to bring it up yet again, I asked her if she could recommend a good attorney, seeing that I was headed for such big trouble and all.” I roll my eyes, remembering how badly that went over.
My fingers nervously picking at the short hem of my white cotton dress as I balance my open bottle of elixir on my knee. Telling myself to calm down, to just let it go, we’ve been over this a gazillion times already and it only serves to make me more wound up than before.
Gazing out the window as Damen slows to a stop, allowing an older woman carrying a surfboard in one hand and a dog leash with a yellow Lab attached in the other, to make their way past. The dog reminding me so much of my old dog, Buttercup, with his wagging tail, shiny yellow coat, happy brown eyes, and cute pink nose, I actually do a double take, as that old, familiar pang curls its way through my gut—a constant reminder of all that I’ve lost.
“Did you remind her that she’s the one who introduced you to Ava, which inadvertently led you to the job at Mystics and Moonbeams?” Damen says, bringing me back to the present as his foot switches from the brake to the gas.
I nod, peering into my side-view mirror, watching the dog’s reflection shrink smaller and smaller. “I mentioned it last night, and you know what she said?”
I look at him, allowing the scene to stream from my mind to his. Sabine at the kitchen counter, a pile of vegetables waiting to be washed and diced before her—me in my running gear determined to get out of the house without a hassle for a change—both of our tasks coming to a screeching, slamming halt when she decided to go for round fifteen in the never-ending battle of her versus me.
“She said it was a joke. A party thing. Meant for entertainment purposes only. That it was never meant to be taken seriously.” I roll my eyes and shake my head.
About to say something more, not even close to the finish, when he looks at me and says, “Ever, if I’ve learned nothing else in my six hundred years of living, it’s that people hate change almost as much as they hate for their beliefs to be challenged. Seriously. Just look at what happened to my poor friend, Galileo. He was completely ostracized for having the audacity to support Copernicus’s theory that the earth wasn’t the center of the universe. To the point where he was tried, found suspect of heresy, forced to recant, and then spent the rest of his life under house arrest, when, of course, as we all know, he was right all along. So, when you think about it, compared to that, I’d say you’re getting off pretty easy.” He laughs, giving me a look that practically begs me to lighten up and laugh too, but I’m just not there yet. Someday I may find this funny, but that day exists in a far-away future I cannot yet see.
“Believe me,” I say, placing my hand over his, aware of the energy veil dancing
between us. “She tried the whole house arrest angle, but no way was I going for it. I mean, it’s really unfair how I’m supposed to just automatically accept her and the black-and-white world she chooses to live in, and yet, she won’t even give me a chance to explain myself. Won’t even consider my side of things. She just automatically pegs me as some crazy, needy, overly emotional teen because I just so happen to have abilities that don’t fit into her close-minded views. And sometimes it makes me so mad I just—” I pause, pressing my lips tightly together, unsure if I should actually allow myself to really voice it out loud.
Damen looks at me, waiting.
“Sometimes-I-just-can’t-wait-for-this-year-to-be-over-so-that-we-can-graduate-and-go-somewhere-far-away-where-we-can-live-our-own-lives-and-be-done-with-all-this.” I exhale the words so quickly they all run together so that one is practically indistinguishable from the next. “I mean, I feel bad for saying it, especially after all that she’s done, but still, the fact is she doesn’t even know the half of what I can do. All she knows is that I have psychic abilities—that’s it! Can you even imagine how she’d react if I told her the real truth? That I’m an immortal with physical powers she can’t even begin to fathom? Like the power of instant manifestation, and, oh yeah, let’s not forget about that brief bout of time travel I engaged in recently, not to mention how I like to spend my free time in this charming little out-of-the-way alternate dimension called Summerland where my immortal boyfriend and I make out in our various past-life guises! Can you imagine how that would go over?”
Damen looks at me, eyes glinting in a way that instantly fills me with a swarm of tingle and heat, smiling as he says, “What do you say we don’t find out, okay?”
