by Alyson Noel
So, instead, I close my eyes and make one last request, asking for Summerland to lead me to him.
ten
The next thing I know, I’m making my way through the field of blazing red tulips, following the pull of Damen’s energy all the way to the front door of the pavilion.
I pause just outside it, unsure if I should really go in. At first, thinking it odd that he’d come here without me, then figuring it’s just his way of being near me when I’m busy elsewhere, I poke my head inside, barely making out the top of his head peeking up from the couch. Just about to call out, let him know that I’m here and share what I’ve learned about the shirt, when I see it.
The screen.
And the horrible scene that’s projected upon it.
It’s my Southern life.
My slave life.
Back when I was helpless and abused, but not without hope.
And on this particular day there seems to be an abundance of hope—at least, all things considered anyway. Because even though it takes me a moment to catch up to what’s truly going on, one thing is clear—I’m being sold. Removed from my horribly abusive master so I can go work for a much younger man with dark wavy hair, a long, lean build, and heavily lashed eyes that I recognize immediately.
Damen.
He bought me. Rescued me. Just like he said!
And yet—if that’s the case, then why do I look so sad? Why is my bottom lip quivering, my dark eyes tearing, on the day when my one true love, my soul mate, my knight in shining armor has come to save me from a life of drudgery?
Why do I look so unhappy, with shaking limbs and a gaze filled with fear—continually glancing over my shoulder while dragging my feet—so clearly reluctant to join him?
And even though I know it’s wrong to spy, that I should speak up and let Damen know that I’m here, I don’t. I don’t say a word. I just remain right where I am. Quiet and still. Allowing only the shallowest breath, knowing this is it. The big thing he’s been hiding all along—the same thing Roman and Jude hinted at, and Haven taunted me with. And if I want to get to the bottom of it, see the scene as real and raw as the day it all happened, I can’t alert him to my presence. Though his inability to sense me proves just how engrossed he really is.
And it’s not long before I see it—the real reason behind all the sadness. The real reason why I reacted the way I did.
I’m being pulled away from my family. From everyone I’ve ever loved. From the only circle of support I’ve ever known in the world.
This kind and wealthy white man may think he’s saving me, committing some kind of noble, good deed, but one look at my face is all it takes to see that he’s doing so at the expense of my only source of happiness.
My mother sobs in the background, as my father stands tall and silent beside her. His gaze is grief-stricken, troubled, though urging us all to stay strong. And even though I cling to them, hanging on with all that I’ve got, determined to seal the impression of their scent, their touch, their very being, it’s not long before I’m pulled away from it all.
Damen grasping my arm as he pulls me toward him and away from my mother—my pregnant mother who anxiously embraces her large, swollen belly that shelters my unborn sister—pulls me away from my father, my family—away from the boy just behind them who reaches for me—the tips of our fingers just barely meeting, the touch cool and fleeting, before I’m yanked far out of his reach. Though my gaze refuses to leave him, my eyes remain steadfast, drinking him in, until the image is seared onto my brain—this lanky, black boy with the piercing brown eyes that instantly reveal who he is.
My friend—my confidant—my intended—the one I know in this life as Jude.
“Quiet now,” Damen whispers, his lips at my ear, as my family is told to turn away and get back to work. “Hush now, please. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise to keep you safe. As long as you’re with me, no one can ever hurt you again. But first you have to trust me, okay?”
But I won’t trust him. Can’t trust him. If he really cared about me, if he’s really as rich and powerful as he claims, then why can’t he buy us all? Why can’t he keep us together?
Why does he take only me?
But before I can see any more, Damen cuts the scene. Just cuts it right off. Instantly erasing it as though it never did exist.
And in that moment I know that this is what he means by editing.
He’s not just sparing me from viewing uncomfortable scenes like my own gruesome deaths—he’s sparing himself—the image he’s worked so hard to craft—unwilling to allow me to witness his more shameful acts.
Like the one I just saw.
The one that may be erased but is forever sealed in my brain.
And I don’t even realize I’ve gasped, don’t even realize I’ve made any sound at all, until he leaps from the couch, his eyes wide, face frantic, when he finds me standing right there behind him.
“Ever!” he cries, voice choked with panic. “How long have you been there?”
But I don’t answer. My expression alone is answer enough.
His gaze darts between me and the screen, as he rakes through his glossy, dark hair, the words rough, unsteady, when he drops his hands to his sides and says, “It’s not what you think. I swear, it’s—it’s not at all what it appeared to be.”
“Then why’d you cut it?” My gaze harsh, unforgiving, unwilling to bend even the tiniest bit. “Why’d you erase it, if not to hide it from me?”
“There’s more to the story—much, much more and I—”
“You don’t trust me?” I cut in, unwilling to hear his denials. Not when we both just watched the same, horrible thing. “After all that we’ve been through, after all that I’ve shared with you—you’re still hiding things from me?” I fight to steady my breath as I press my hand flat against my belly, feeling more than a little sickened by this. “So tell me, Damen, just how far does this go—this editing of yours? What else could you possibly be hiding from me?” Remembering what Haven alluded to in the bathroom today and warning myself not to fall into her trap, not to let her divide and conquer us. Then dropping the thought just as quickly. I saw what I saw. The evidence played out before me clear as day.
“First you wait until the very last minute to tell me the truth about you and me and Jude—and now—now this?” I shake my head, still reeling from the vision of who I was and who he might still possibly be. “Is this some sort of sick game you’re playing? Is this how you get your kicks? Tell me, Damen, just how many times, in how many lives, have you pulled me away from my family and friends?” He looks at me, face ashen, but I’m on a roll and there’s no stopping me now. “I mean, there’s the time we just saw, and there’s this life, the one I’m in now…” I pause, knowing that’s not exactly fair. I’m the one who lingered in the field of my own free will. I’m the one who was so entranced by the magick of Summerland I chose to stay back while the rest of my family moved on. But still, had he not fed me the elixir, maybe I would’ve eventually found them—maybe we’d all be together right now. And I’m so upset by my thoughts, by the images that refuse to stop playing in my head, that I can’t decide which is better—for me to have died and joined up with my family—or for me to have lived so I can deal with all this.
I turn, legs shaking, heart crashing, needing to get out, get some air, no longer able to breathe in this room.
Damen’s voice calling out from behind me, begging me to stop, to slow down, claiming that it can all be explained.
But I refuse to stop.
Refuse to slow down in any way.
I just keep on running.
Just keep on going until I’ve found my way home again.
eleven
“What the hell, Ever? You drop out of school and forget to tell me?”
I glance up from the register where I’m busy ringing up a sale, only to find Miles lurking behind my squinty-eyed, not-one-bit-amused customer.
Taking a moment to shoot him
my very best not now look, as I charge her credit card and wrap her books and meditation CDs in some purple tissue paper, before I slide them into a matching bag and send her on her way.
“Nice one.” I nod, the words competing with the bell clanking hard against the door as she leaves. “I’m sure we won’t be seeing her again anytime soon.”
Miles waves it away, dismissing the thought with a shrug as he says, “Whatever. Trust me, I’ve got much more important things to discuss than Jude’s bank statement.”
“Yeah? Like what?” I shove the receipt into the purple box where we store them, aware of Miles’s gaze weighing heavily, waiting for me to acknowledge it so he can get on with the real reason for his visit.
“Well, like you, for instance.” He watches me settle onto the stool, crossing my arms before me. Careful to keep my gaze neutral, expressionless, as though I’m not at all anxious or worried, as though I’m just patiently waiting for him to continue. “I mean, for one thing, except for the very first day, I’ve yet to see you at school. Which means you haven’t been going to school, because as it just so happens, I’ve been looking for you. Waiting outside your classes, next to your locker, at the lunch table, but—nothing, niente, you so haven’t been there.”
I shrug, unwilling to confirm or deny—at least not just yet anyway. First I need to see just how strong a case he plans to build against me.
“And even though I’m sure you’ll probably try to claim that you have your reasons, that your extended absence—your super-sized summer if you will—are pretty much none of my business, I just want you to know that you’re wrong. It is my business. In fact, it is very much my business. Because, as your friend, as one of your very best friends, I’m here to tell you that your no-show silent treatment is affecting not just me but all of us. Even the people you don’t consider your friends—believe it or not—it’s affecting them too.”
I shrug. Unsure what to say, but knowing it’s not really time for that anyway. Miles loves nothing more than an extended monologue, and from the signs of it, this one is nowhere near coming to a close.
“You know, people like me—and Damen—and, well, maybe not so much Haven anymore, but still, never mind that, we’ll get to it later. What I’m trying to say is that it’s like you’re just—” He pauses, thumbs hooked in the front tabs of his jeans as he gazes all around, searching for just the right word. Finally returning to me when he says, “It’s like you’re just totally ignoring us. Like you’ve dismissed us. Like you’ve ceased to even care about us—”
“Miles—” I start, pressing my lips together as I try to think of the best way to continue. “Listen, I get what you’re saying. Really I do. And believe me, I totally get why you might see it that way, but trust me, there’s a lot more to it than you might think. Way more than you could ever even begin to imagine. I mean, seriously, if I was to tell you the real truth behind all of this—” I close my eyes and shake my head, knowing that half the time I’m hardly able to believe it myself. “Anyway, I can’t really get into it, but just trust me when I say that if you knew even a fraction of what was really going on, well, you’d definitely be thanking me for keeping you out of it.” I pause, allowing enough time for my words to sink in, hoping he’ll see just how serious I am. “And while I’m really sorry that you feel like I’m ignoring you, and that I don’t care about you, it’s not at all true. Seriously, not even a bit. You’re pretty much the only real friend I have left at this point. And I really want to make it up to you, and I promise I will. Soon. For sure. But right now I’m just…I’m just a little…preoccupied, that’s all.”
“And what about Damen? You gonna make it up to him too?”
I look at him, not even trying to bury my shock. I mean, I cannot believe he’s seriously choosing to confront me with that.
“Please don’t assume you know more than you do,” I say, my voice a little harsher than I intended. “There’s a lot more to it. Stuff you don’t understand. Nothing is anywhere near as simple as it may seem on the surface, and believe me, this goes way beyond that—the roots are pretty dang deep.”
He gazes down at the ground, digging the toe of his shoe into the carpeted floor, taking a moment to collect his thoughts, decide just the right way to confront me, before he lifts his head, looks me right in the eye, and says, “And would one of those things that I can’t possibly understand have anything to do with the fact that you’re—?”
Our eyes meet, leaving me frozen, unable to breathe. The word speeding toward me, crashing straight into my energy field before it can even leave his lips.
And there’s nothing I can do about it, no way to rewind or stop him from saying:
“Immortal?”
His gaze locks on mine, and no matter how much I may want to, I can’t look away.
My skin is prickled with cold when he adds, “Or is it the fact that you’re psychic? Gifted with all manner of mental and physical powers. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ll stay young and beautiful forever. Never aging, never dying, just like your sidekick Damen, who’s been around for six hundred years and counting and who only just recently decided to turn you like him?” His eyes narrow, as his gaze sweeps my face. “Tell me, Ever, am I on the right track? Are these the things you were referring to?”
“How did—” I start.
But the words are drowned out by his voice when he says, “Oh, and let’s not forget about Drina, who, as it turns out, was also immortal. And then, of course, there was Roman as well. Not to mention Marco, Misa, and Rafe—the three somewhat annoying tagalongs Haven’s chosen to hang with for whatever unknown reason. And, I can’t believe I almost forgot to mention the most recent addition to the gang of the eternally beautiful—our dear friend Haven herself. Or, should I say, my dear friend, your newfound immortal enemy—even though you’re the one who chose to make her like you? Is this the kind of stuff I couldn’t possibly begin to understand?”
I swallow hard, stunned into silence and unable to think of anything better to do than sit there and stare. And even though I mostly feel horrified to have it all laid out before me like that—the accumulated facts of my very strange life revealed in a way so neutral, so ordinary, it hardly seems real, even to me—there’s also a small part of me that’s relieved.
I’ve been carrying this secret for so long, I can’t help but feel lighter, brighter, as though I’ve finally been freed of a burden that was far too heavy to bear on my own.
But Miles isn’t finished. He’s only just begun. So I shake my head and refocus on his words, struggling to keep up when he says, “And the ironic thing is, if you really stop and think about it, if you really stop and ponder it in a methodical, logical way, well then, I think it’s pretty clear that I’m the one who should be avoiding you.”
I squint, not quite following how he arrived at that conclusion but knowing he’s about to explain.
“I mean, imagine how it feels to find out that the friends I thought I knew so well, the same friends I felt confident sharing everything with, are not only not at all what they appear to be, but that they’re also, every single one of them, members of a super-exclusive, super-secret club. A club where, it’s pretty dang obvious that everyone is welcome. Everyone but me.” He stops, shaking his head as he moves toward the front of the store, gazing out the display windows at the sun-dappled street just beyond. His voice bearing the burden of his words when he says, “I gotta tell ya, Ever, it hurts. Make no mistake. It really and truly hurts me to the core. I mean, the way I see it, which is the only way anyone could see it, but still, the way I see it, it’s like you don’t want me to be immortal too. It’s like you don’t want to know me, or even be my friend, for anything even close to resembling eternity.”
He turns, turns until he’s facing me, and one look at his face is all it takes to know that this is even worse than I thought. And I know I have to say something quick, something to temper all this, but before I can even open my mouth, he’s back for round two, forci
ng me to sit back and wait for my turn.
“And you know what really kills me the most? You know who saw fit to finally fill me in on all this?” He pauses as though waiting for me to respond, but I won’t, the question was obviously rhetorical. This is his show, his script, and I have no intention of stealing his scene. “The one and only person out of your entire super-secret gang of the eternally beautiful—the only one out of all of you who was willing to sit down and level with me, without pulling any punches or trying to pass off any kind of bull—the one and only person who was willing to look me in the eye and reveal all was surprisingly enough—”
And before he can finish—before he can utter the word I already know.
Damen.
Remembering the moment Miles e-mailed the portraits he’d uncovered in Florence—the portraits Roman was determined he’d find.
The way Damen’s fingers trembled as I passed him the phone, the way his lids narrowed, his jaw tightened, the way he so valiantly accepted the sudden unearthing of his centuries-old secret.
The way he vowed to come clean with Miles, to stop hiding, stop lying, to finally tell the truth and get it all out in the open.
But never once believing he’d actually go through with it.
“Damen.” Miles confirms, nodding emphatically, gaze never once leaving mine. “And when you consider the fact that I’ve known him for—what? Less than a year? Less time than I’ve known you anyway, that’s for dang sure, and certainly far less time than I’ve known Haven. And yet he’s the one who told me. Despite the fact that I talk to him far, far less than I talk to either of you—he’s the one who chose to be straight with me. Even though he’s always been the quiet keep-to-himself type—and now I know why—but anyway, even though we’ve never really bonded, so to speak, he’s still the only one who treated me like a true friend. Like someone he could trust and confide in. He just sat me down and spilled it—told me the truth about you, about him, about—about everything—all of it!”
