by Alyson Noel
“And two?” she says, voice raspy, acid-tinged, broadcasting her extreme displeasure with me.
“And two.” I smile, eyes never once leaving hers. “You’re about to be outnumbered. Damen is here.”
I can feel his presence, feel him pulling into the drive, rushing through the front door, down the maze in the hall. Warning Miles to stay back, to not get involved or venture any further, as he storms into the den and Haven gazes upon them. Seeing Damen, standing right beside me, while Miles peers in through the doorway, having refused to listen to Damen’s warning to stay out of the way.
Narrowing her eyes when she says, “Oh, would you look at that—Damen brought his own backup. That’s so cute!”
I turn, glimpsing Miles, his aura dimming, his shoulders cringing, regretting the moment he decided to enter this room when he takes in the gruesome sight of his former best friend.
Haven glares, her eyes blazing with fury when she says, “You chose the wrong side, Miles.” She narrows her gaze even further, until all I can see are two slits of red. “I can’t believe what a traitor you turned out to be.”
Miles meets her gaze, and if he’s scared, he doesn’t show it. He just straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and combs his fingers through his hair, his aura beaming, strengthening, when he says, “I haven’t chosen at all. I may not agree with your more recent choices, I may have chosen to distance myself a bit, but as far as I’m concerned we never stopped being friends. I mean, seriously, Haven, so far I’ve made it through your ballerina phase, your preppy phase, your goth phase, your emo phase, and now your super-scary immortal witch phase.” He shrugs casually as he takes a moment to glance around the room. “And the fact is, I’m not going anywhere. For one thing, I haven’t yet given up on you, and for another, well, I’m way too curious to see which role you’ll decide to play next.”
She rolls her eyes, voice raspier than ever when she says, “Well, I hate to break it to ya, but there is no next, Miles. Whether you like it or not, this is it. This is the new and improved, infinite version of me. I’m completely self-actualized. I’m everything I was ever meant to be.”
Miles shakes his head. “I really wish you’d rethink this or look in a mirror at least.”
But if she hears it, she chooses to ignore it and instead turns her attention back to Damen. “So, Damen Auguste Esposito.” She smiles, her face garish, eyes red and flashing, using a name that was thrust on him a very long time ago, back when his parents were murdered and he was turned over to the orphanage where he lived until the black plague ravaged the area and he spared himself by making the elixir. A name he hasn’t used for several centuries at least, and it takes me a moment to recognize it. “I know all about you. I’m not sure if Ever mentioned it or not, but Roman kept very good records, very detailed records. And you, well, let’s just say you’ve been a very, very naughty boy, now haven’t you?”
Damen shrugs, careful to keep his face still, his emotions well hidden. “I brought you more elixir. I left a big box by the door, and believe me, there’s plenty more where that came from. So why don’t you come with me and have a look, okay? You can even have a taste if you’d like.”
“Why don’t you save me the steps and bring it to me instead?” She bats her eyes, attempting to smile in the way that she used to—cute, charming, flirtatious, with a hint of adorable quirkiness. But she’s veered so far from that old version of herself, it just ends up looking creepy instead. “As you can see, I’m a little busy here. Ever and I were just working through the details of a little deal that we made, and if I’m not mistaken, the fact that she summoned you means she no longer trusts me. Which is pretty ironic if you consider that not only did she make me this way, but, from everything I saw in Roman’s journals, well, she really has no good reason to trust you either, now does she?”
“Enough with the journals,” I say, eager to move away from all this. “I know everything, Haven. There’s nothing left for you to lord over us, so why don’t you just—”
“You sure about that?” Her eyes dart between us, as though she knows something I don’t and can’t wait to reveal it. “You know about his past with Drina? How he faked his own death in a fire? About the little slave girl he stole from her family? You know about all of that?” She glances between us, including Jude, but he just meets her gaze and gives nothing away.
“She does.” Damen looks at her. “And, by the way, I didn’t steal the slave girl, I bought her in order to free her. Unfortunately, that’s how it was done back then. It was a very dark time in our history. But I don’t think you’re really all that interested in reliving that. So please, don’t waste any more of our time with this nonsense. Just let go of Jude and hand over the shirt. Now.”
“Now?” She balks, lifting her brow. “Oh no, I don’t think I’ll be doing that now or any other time, for that matter. That’s not the way this game is played. In fact, that pretty much goes against all the rules. And since you’re so late to the party, allow me to explain it to you. Basically, a choice must be made. You can either, A, choose to save Jude, or B, choose to save the shirt. So Damen, what’ll it be—a person’s life or your own self-interest? Kind of like what Roman made Ever do when she made me drink, right here in this room, well, at least according to Ever anyway. I can’t say for sure since I was so out of it. Though I do remember how the whole thing went down right there on that couch.” She jerks her head toward it. “Which, I guess, is probably why she’s refusing to play this time around. Must be a painful reminder since it’s pretty obvious how much she regrets her decision. It’s pretty obvious how she wishes she’d just let me die instead. But just because she won’t play doesn’t mean you can’t. So tell me, Damen, which one will it be? Just tell me and it’s yours and yours to keep!”
Damen looks at her, preparing to charge, to take her down and put an end to all this. I can feel it in the way his energy shifts. I can see the plan forming in his head. But I quickly warn him against it—pleading with him to stay calm and still and to not do a thing. She’s baiting him, expecting no less than an ambush, and there’s far too much at stake to play it that way.
“Haven, no one’s choosing anything,” I say. “Because no one’s playing your stupid little game. So why don’t you just let go of Jude, hand over the shirt, and try to get a grip on yourself—on your life. Believe it or not, I’m still willing to help you. I’m still willing to put all the bad stuff behind us, so you can recover. Seriously. Just—just give me the shirt and let go of Jude and—”
“Choose!” she screams, her whole body shaking so badly my gut jumps into my throat when I see how closely the shirt veers toward the flames. “Fugging choose already, sheesh!”
And even though she means it, even though her eyes blaze with rage, I just look at her and shake my head.
“Fine.” She glares. “If you two won’t choose, then I’ll choose for you. But just remember, you had your chance.”
She turns toward Jude, her lips parting as though she’s about to say something, something that might be good-bye or good luck or good riddance or—or anything of the sort.
But it’s not real.
She’s trying to throw us all off.
Make us think Jude’s not long for this world when she couldn’t care less about him.
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 sh
irt 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 see 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.
