Night Star

by Alyson Noel

  It’s me she wants to hurt.

  It’s me she wants to destroy.

  And she’s determined to take all of my hopes and dreams along with it.

  So I lunge.

  Just as Damen lunges to save Jude, and Jude lunges to kill Haven.

  Coiling his fingers into a fist, aiming right for the very center of her torso—her third chakra—her one major weak spot—just like I taught him.

  Only it doesn’t connect.

  Damen inadvertently catches him in midflight and knocks him off course at the very last second.

  While Miles instinctively, nobly, foolishly, rushes forward to help me, only to get caught in Haven’s snare as she grips the shirt in one hand and her best childhood friend in the other.

  Her fingers squeezing tightly around his neck as Miles kicks and gasps and struggles to free himself.

  And one look in her eyes is all it takes to see that she means it.

  To see just how dark and evil she’s become.

  Everything they’ve shared means nothing to her.

  She has every intention of killing him if for no other reason than to hurt me.

  To force me into choosing, whether I like it or not.

  Flashing me one last, horrible grin as she squeezes Miles so hard his eyes are about to burst from his head—simultaneously shrieking with delight as she drops the shirt into the blazing fire where it’s greedily met by the flames.

  All of it happening so quickly, in less than a fraction of a second, though it seems to play out in slow motion before me.

  Her face looming, hateful and obscene, gleaming with the victory, the absolute thrill—of getting to me.

  So while Damen untangles himself from Jude, I draw back my fist, recalling the manifested version of this scene I rehearsed all those months ago, and noting how it’s nothing like the all-too-real version that plays out before me.

  Mostly because I have no regrets.

  No reason to apologize.

  No choice but to kill her before she kills Miles.

  I slam my knuckles straight into her chest, feeling it connect smack into the sweet spot.

  Seeing the flash of shock in her gaze, as Damen snatches Miles from her grasp, and I leap into the flames.

  My flesh scorching, burning, bubbling, peeling—the pain white hot and agonizingly searing.

  Though I pay it no notice.

  I just keep going, reaching, grasping, seeking.

  All of my focus narrowed down to this one single thing—trying to save the shirt—even though it’s clearly too late.

  Even though it’s been swallowed whole, consumed by the flames, leaving no trace that it ever existed.

  Vaguely aware of the sound of Miles’s and Jude’s frantic cries coming from somewhere behind me.

  Vaguely aware of Damen’s arms grasping, holding, soothing, pulling me out of the fire and smothering the raging inferno that’s consuming my clothes, my hair, my flesh.

  Pulling me tightly to his chest, whispering into my ear over and over again that it’ll all be okay. That he’ll find a way. That the shirt doesn’t matter. The important thing is that Miles and Jude are safe and we still have each other.

  Begging me to close my eyes, to look the other way, to avoid the hideous sight of my staggering, gasping, dying, former best friend.

  But I don’t listen.

  I allow my eyes to meet hers.

  Taking in her snarl of hair, her blazing red gaze, her sunken cheeks, her emaciated body, her crazed expression, and her voice filled with absolute, all-consuming hatred when she screams, “This is your fault, Ever. You’re the one who made me this way! And now you’re gonna pay for this—I swear you’re gonna—”

  Unable to stop looking even after she crumbles, and breaks, and swiftly slips away.

  thirty-nine

  “You had to do it.” Damen looks at me, mouth grim, brow creased with concern. “You did the right thing, you had no choice.”

  “Oh, there’s always a choice.” I sigh, meeting his gaze. “But the only thing I feel badly about is who she became, the way she chose to handle her power, her immortality. I don’t feel badly about the choice that I made. I know I did the right thing.”

  I drop my head on Damen’s shoulder and allow his arm to slip around me. Thinking how even though I know I made the only real choice that I could under the circumstances, that doesn’t make it any easier. Though I choose not to voice that, not wanting to worry Damen any further.

  “You know, one of my acting coaches used to say that you can tell a lot about a person from how they handle times of great stress.” Miles glances between us, his neck still roughed up and red, his voice hoarse and scratchy, but thankfully, he’s well on the mend. “He said true character is revealed by the way people react to the bigger challenges in life. And while I definitely agree with that, I also think the same can be said of how people handle power. I mean, I hate to say it, but I’m really not all that surprised by the way Haven reacted. I think we all know she had it in her. We went all the way back to elementary school, and as far as I can remember, she always had this really dark side. She was always driven by her jealousies and insecurities, and, I guess what I’m trying to say is, you didn’t make her that way, Ever.” He looks at me, his bloodshot eyes and pale face bearing his distress at losing his friend—at almost being killed by his friend—but still desperate for me to believe it. “She just was who she was. And once she realized her power, once she started thinking she was invincible, well, she just became even more of who she was.”

  I look at Miles, silently nodding my thanks.

  Then I sneak a quick peek at Jude, who’s off in the corner searching through the large stack of oil paintings propped up against the wall, determined to keep quiet, keep to himself, feeling responsible for everything that just happened, and mentally kicking himself for yet again messing with my plans in a pretty big way.

  And yet, even though I wish he hadn’t done what he did, even though it definitely resulted in disaster on a colossal scale, I also know he didn’t do it on purpose. Despite his tendency to interfere in my life, always managing to come between me and the one thing I want most in this world, it’s not like he’s trying to get in the way. It’s not like it’s the least bit intentional. In fact, it almost seems as though he’s driven to do it.

  As though he’s being guided by some higher force—even though I’m not even sure what that means.

  “So, anyway, what should we do with all of the rest of it?” Miles asks, having already helped Damen and me collect Roman’s journals, or at least all the ones we could find.

  The last thing we need is for someone else to stumble upon them, and read the firsthand account of one very flamboyant person’s very flamboyant (and flamboyantly long!) flamboyant life—even if they probably would just assume it was a work of over-the-top fiction.

  “We box it up and give it to charity, I guess,” Damen says, smoothing his hand over my back as he gazes around a house that’s completely jammed with all manner of antiques from all different periods. Basically everything that was once kept in storage or at the store has been moved here. Though it’s anyone’s guess what Haven planned to do with it. “Or we have an estate sale and donate the money to charity.” He shrugs, seeming a little overwhelmed by the task.

  Unlike Roman, Damen was never a hoarder. He managed to exist for centuries with only the items he needed at the time, while saving only those that truly meant something to him. But then, Damen knows how to manifest. He knows just how plentiful the universe really is. While Roman never mastered that gift, probably didn’t even know it was possible, and instead became greedy, believing there was never enough, and that if he didn’t snatch something up, then someone else would, so he’d better get to it first. And the only time he was ever willing to release or let go of anything was when it resulted in great profit for him.

  “Then again, if you see anything you really want, feel free to take it,” he adds. “Otherwise, I s
ee no reason to keep it, I have no interest in any of it.”

  “You sure about that?” Jude asks, speaking up for the first time since it all happened. Since I killed my former best friend and sent her straight to the Shadowland. “No interest in anything? Not even this?”

  I turn, we all turn, only to find Jude standing before us, spliced brow raised, dimples on full display, as he holds up a canvas revealing a glorious, vibrant oil painting of a beautiful titian-haired girl twirling in a never-ending field of red tulips.

  I gasp. Swallowing a huge mouthful of air, instantly recognizing the girl as me—the me of my Amsterdam life—but unsure who the artist could be.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jude gazes between us, though his eyes land on me. “In case you’re wondering, it’s signed by Damen.” He motions toward the hand-scrawled scribble in the lower right corner. Shaking his head as he adds, “I was good in my former life, no doubt about that. From what I’ve seen in Summerland, Bastiaan de Kool certainly had his share of talent—he lived a pretty good life too.” He smiles. “But still, as hard as I tried, I could never quite capture you in the way Damen did.” He shrugs. “I just couldn’t seem to master that—technique.”

  He hands me the painting as my eyes continue to graze over it. Seeing how it’s all there—me, the tulips, and even though Damen’s not pictured, I can still feel his presence.

  Can see the love he held for me in every last brushstroke.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to just box it all up without taking a really good look at least,” Jude says. “Who knows what other treasures can be found here?”

  “You mean, like this?” Miles slips into the black silk smoking jacket Roman wore on the night of my seventeenth birthday—the night that came so close to going so tragically wrong—until I finally found the courage, the strength in my heart, to push him right off me. “Should I keep it?” he asks, tying the sash tightly around his waist and striking a series of fashion-model–type poses. “I mean, if I’m ever asked to audition for a role as Hugh Hefner, I’ll have the perfect thing to wear!”

  And I start to say no.

  Start to ask him to please just take it off and put it away.

  Start to explain how it holds far too many bad memories for me.

  But then I remember what Damen once said about memories—that they’re haunting things.

  And because I refuse to be haunted by mine—I just take a deep breath and smile when I say, “You know, I think it looks really good on you. You should definitely keep it.”

  forty

  “Do you think anyone’s ever done this here before?”

  I kneel down, my knees sinking into the leftover dirt from the hole I just dug, as I glance up at Damen beside me. The rich, moist soil providing a nice cushion as I lean forward and place the velvet-lined box containing all that remains of Haven—her jewelry and clothing—into the space I just made, as Damen looks on.

  “Summerland is a very old place.” He sighs, his voice tight, filled with unease and concern. “I’m sure most things have been tried at least once.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder, and I can feel the worry streaming off him. He’s worried that I’m only pretending to be fine with my choice. Convinced that deep down inside I’m not nearly as okay as I claim.

  But even though I’m left incredibly saddened by my actions, I don’t doubt them or question them for a second.

  I’m no longer that girl.

  I’ve finally learned to place my trust in my self, to listen to my gut, to heed my own overwhelming instincts, and, because of it, I’m at peace with what I now know I had to do. Even if it means one more lost soul has been sent to the Shadowland, Haven was far too dangerous to be allowed to continue.

  But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to honor her.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t still hold out a bit of hope for her.

  Having recently been there myself (thanks to her), I know exactly what she’s going through. Falling—floating—forced to watch the mistakes of her past, over and over again. And if I was ready to learn from it and better myself, well, maybe she can do so as well.

  Maybe the Shadowland only feels like an eternity spent alone in the abyss.

  Maybe there really is a second chance at some point—a shot at redemption for a newly rehabbed soul?

  I lift the lid off the box, wanting to take one last glimpse at the sky-high boots, the skintight minidress, the tangle of jewels—all of them blue—the dangling earrings, and the pile of rings, including the silver skull ring she wore back on the day we first met.

  Back when neither one of us could’ve ever imagined our friendship ending like this.

  Then, just before I close it, I manifest a single red-velvet cupcake with pink sprinkles that I place right on top. Remembering how it was her favorite, one of the earlier, more harmless addictions she so happily indulged.

  Damen kneels down beside me, squinting between the cupcake and me when he says, “What’s that for?”

  I take a deep breath, take one last look, then close the lid again. Scooping up heaping handfuls of loose dirt that I let fall through my fingers and onto the top when I say, “Just a little reminder of the old Haven, the way she was back when we first met.”

  Damen hesitates, studying me carefully. “And who’s this reminder for—her or you?” he asks.

  I turn, eyes grazing over his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose, his lips, saving the eyes for last, I say, “The universe. It’s silly, I know, but I’m just hoping a sweet little reminder will convince it to go easy on her.”

  forty-one

  “Where to now?” Damen wipes the dirt from his jeans, as I shrug, and gaze all around. Knowing the pavilion’s out, it would be grossly inappropriate after everything that just went down, and it’s not like I want to go home anytime soon…

  He looks at me, having just heard the thought, so I decide to fess up and say, “It’s not like I don’t know I have to go home eventually, but trust me, there will be major hell to pay when I do.”

  I shake my head, allowing the whole ugly scene with Sabine to stream from my mind to his, including the part just after I stormed out of the house, when I manifested a bouquet of daffodils and a BMW right in Munoz’s view, and seeing Damen wince at the sight of it.

  Suddenly getting a whole new idea though not quite sure how to approach it, I glance all around us and say, “But maybe—” I pause, knowing he’s not going to like it, but resolved to broach it anyway. “I mean, it’s just a thought, but what do you say we go visit that dark side again?”

  I peer at him, seeing him reply with an are you crazy? look, and, yeah, maybe I am. But I also have a theory, and I’m eager to see if I’m right.

  “I just…there’s something I want to see,” I tell him, knowing he’s still a long way from convinced.

  “So let me get this straight.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “You want us to go visit that creepy part of Summerland, where there’s no magick, no manifesting, nothing much of anything other than a steady supply of rain, a bunch of burnt-out foliage, miles and miles of deep, swampy mud that practically doubles as quicksand, and, oh yeah, some creepy old lady who’s obviously gone completely mad, and who, as it just so happens, is totally fixated on you?”

  I nod. That about sums it up.

  “You’d rather do that than deal with Sabine?”

  I nod again and this time I lift my shoulders too.

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Sure.” I smile. “But I probably won’t answer ’til we get there, so just trust me, okay? There’s something I need to see first.”

  He looks at me, obviously reluctant to go through with it but even more reluctant to deny me, he quickly manifests a horse for us to ride as I close my eyes and urge him to take us to the darkest, dreariest part of this place.

  And the next thing I know, we’re there. Our mount coming to a crashing halt as Damen and I fight to stay on his back. Rearing and bucking and pawing the e
arth, forcing Damen to coo softly into his ear, assuring him he need go no farther, and calming him down enough for us to slide off his back and have a good look around.

  “So, just like we remembered it,” Damen says, eager to ditch this place for somewhere warmer, brighter, better.

  “But is it?” I venture toward the spot where the mud begins, tapping my foot softly against it. Testing its softness, its deepness, trying to determine if it’s changed in some way.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at.” He peers at me. “But as far as I can see, it’s just as wet, barren, muddy, and depressing as the last time we were here.”

  I nod. “That’s all true, but does it somehow seem…bigger to you? Like, I don’t know, like it’s…growing or expanding in some way?”

  He squints, not quite following where I’m going with this, and knowing I’ll risk sounding crazy or, at the very worst, completely paranoid, I still choose to go ahead with it anyway, since I could really use a second opinion.

  “I’ve got this theory—”

  He looks at me.

  “Well—” I take a deep breath and gaze all around. “I can’t help but think that I might somehow be the cause of all this.”

  “You?” Damen squints, brows merged with concern.

  But I look right past it and quickly continue. Desperate to finish, to get the words out before I have enough time to really stop and listen to myself, before I lose all my nerve. “Look,” I say, voice tense and hurried. “I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but please hear me out first.”

  He nods and flashes his palms, showing he has no plans to stop me.

  “I’m thinking that maybe…well, maybe this place started growing when all the bad things started happening.”

  “Bad things?”

  “Yeah, you know, like when I killed Drina.”

  “Ever—” he starts, eager to dispel it, to erase all the blame.

  But before he can finish, I’m talking again. “I mean, you’ve been coming here for a really long time now, right?”